


The Invisible Man Virtual Seasons

by keychain_crap (axzanier)



Category: The Invisible Man (TV 2000)
Genre: Gen, Virtual Season/Series, iman vs, the invisible man - scifi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-06 23:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 241,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14658630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axzanier/pseuds/keychain_crap
Summary: At the cancellation of The Invisible Man a bunch of idiots... errr, fans got together and decided to continue the series. We managed two seasons before real life and other endeavors dragged us away. We'd plotted out the basics for a fifth season, but it never truly came to fruition. Bits got written fir the first episode, but until this past Small Bang never finished.So, this will be every completed episode, copied straight from the html files on the site (http://invisiblemanvs.net/). Any goofs, typos and errors are those from the original version. Any screwy formatting I will attempt to fix as I go.Each "chapter" will be an entire episode. Some are markedly longer than others, but all should be a fun read.Please keep in mind, even when only a single writer is listed on the story that every single one was a major group effort. We voted on pretty much every aspect of every story and edited each one as a group. We loved this show and endeavored to do it justice in every word we wrote.





	1. A Simple Path (season 3 ep 01)

 

Episode One

 A Simple Path

 

By pipsqueak

with Liz_Z and Suz.

Special thanks to AXZ for inspiring the opening scene.

 

Teaser

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_One of the few truly enlightened dudes in this world, the Dalai Lama, advises us, "When you are able to clear away thoughts of the past and the future, slowly you begin to get a sense of the space between the two. You learn to abide in that present moment." Now in his book, **A Simple Path** , he goes on for almost 200 pages describing the Four Noble Truths, the Three Jewels and everything else you need to know in order to attain this transcendent state of awareness. Me? Well, let's just say that, as with all things, I like to put his concept into practice in my own way._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A warm breeze gently stirred the curtains on Darien's open window. Inside the apartment, all was quiet except for the gentle buzz of soft snoring. A stray beam of dusky daylight escaped past the arm Darien had thrown across his face and assaulted his shut eyes. Rolling over with a sleepy sigh, he pushed the crisp white sheets and fluffy comforter down his naked chest, letting them bunch around the waist of his striped pajama bottoms. Then he buried his unshaven face deeper into the pillow he'd curled himself around. Still snuggled in contentedly, a slight smile on his face, he raised a hand and scratched absently at a bare shoulder.

The ringing of the phone pierced the peaceful calm. Darien instinctively pulled the pillow over his ears to block out the noise, but the phone refused to be silenced. Grabbing the handset from off his nightstand, he mumbled, "Fawkes."

"I damn well know who you are," Alex's adamant voice came screaming down the line. "And if you know what's good for you, you'll get your ass in here  **now**. I've already been waiting over three hours for you to show up for your lesson and if I have to wait 10 more minutes, I will come over there and drag your useless, lazy butt out of that bed by your  **hair** , so help me God."

Darien scrubbed his free hand over his eyes and winced. Man, this chick was a major downer. "Ah, you know what, Alex?" His grimace turned into a grin. "Like I told the Fat Man: these days we're doing things  **my**  way. I'll be in when I'm in."

"Don't you hang up on me, Fawkes. I swear, I will gut you like a ...."

Darien hit the power button on the handset, cutting Monroe off mid-rant. Settling back down into his comfy nest, he smiled contentedly and dropped the phone onto his bedstand, right next to his clock, which read 2:35 PM in large, glowing numbers. From the street below, the head-banging sound of punk crooner Sid Vicious wafted in compliments of some metal head's boom box, blaring Darien's new personal anthem, "I did it myyyyyyy waaaaaaaay."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

::Cue Theme Music::

**There once was a tale about a guy who could turn invisible. I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me. OK, so here's how it works: There's this stuff called 'Quicksilver' that can bend light. My brother and some scientists made it into a synthetic gland, and that's where I came in. See, I was facing life in prison and they were looking for a human experiment. So we made a deal; they put the gland in my brain, and I walk free. The operation was a success... but that's when everything started to go wrong.**

::Music Fade Out::

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_When I was a kid, there was always some dweeb who actually liked school -- like my bro, Kevin. You know the kind: the one that was always happy when school started up in the fall. The one that was always singing, "School days, school days, good old golden rule days ...." I hated that kid. See, I was always more of the "no more pencils, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks" kinda guy. So here I am, all grown up, and still hatin' school. And wonderin' what kind of looks Monroe was going to be giving me for being late. 'Course, in the words of my homey, Mark Twain, "I have never let my schooling interfere with my education." Word._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act One

 

Darien sauntered into Alex's office close to 3:45 p.m. "Well, Teach, I'm here and ready to learn," he announced. "Lay the knowledge on me."

"Sorry, Fawkes, too late. I'm off the clock on this one," Alex nudged Eberts out of the way as she pulled files from her drawer and put them in her briefcase. "Had you been on time like Eberts, I could have included you in my introductory Corruption, Temptation and Seduction tutorial. But now Hobbes here is going to have to handle your training."

Bobby stepped up and threw a friendly arm around the taller man's shoulders. "That's right, partner. And lucky for you, Bobby Hobbes is the CTS  **master**."

Darien leaned on Alex's desk, bringing his eyes level with hers. "Alright, Alex, you made your point. My bad. I swear I'll be on time tomorrow, really ...."

"It won't be any different tomorrow," Alex continued with her packing. "Hobbes is taking over your training whether you like it or not."

"Don't worry, my friend," Bobby assured Darien. "You are in good hands. Learn from the best is what I always say ...."

Darien grabbed Alex by the elbow, "Oh, come on, Suzy, don't be like that..."

"I'm not being anything." She glared at his hand on her arm and he released her to pick up her briefcase. "I'm just telling it like it is and doing what I'm told. I'm outta here."

"Wait, Alex, don't go like that." Darien looked at his two co-workers for support. "Bobby, Ebes, say something."

"She's correct, Darien," Eberts explained, "Miss Monroe is just following the Official's directive. In order to increase the Agency's cash flow, the Official has extended her services to the CIA. As she is one of the few five-star-rated agents, you can imagine that the fee for such inter-agency cooperation is substantial, to say the least."

Darien stared at the normally ferocious female agent. "You're kidding? You mean he sold you out? And you're just going to take it?"

Alex nodded her head. "That's right. The Fat Man's finally done it -- sold me right into super-agent slavery and there's not a damn thing I can do about it. At least not if I want this agency's cooperation in finding my son again. And since you guys are the Chrysalis experts ...," she snorted delicately, "well, let's just say, I've made my bed and now I've got to lie in it."

"Well, I don't have to," Darien pulled himself up to his full height, literally towering over his fellow agents. " **I'm**  pulling the Fat Man's strings now and I'm gonna tell him that you're staying  **put**...."

"Darien, don’t!" Despite their almost eight-inch height disparity, Alex stood toe-to-toe with her unorthodox co-worker. "I mean, I appreciate it, I really do. But when it comes to finding my son, I'm not willing to take any chances. Like it or not, I got myself assigned to this agency and that means dancing to the Official's tune even if I don't like it. I am  **not**  willing to risk losing his good will if it means losing my chance to come back and find my son when Stark's trail is picked up. And I'm counting on  **you** ," Alex looked at each of the three men, "all of you, to pick it up again. Don't let me down."

Darien looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. Bobby came forward and extended his hand. "We won't, Alex," he said. "We'll find Stark and we'll find your son. And when we do, we'll be proud to have you as a member of our team."

Alex took Bobby's hand and shook it. "Thank you, Bobby." She started to exit the room, then stopped in the doorway. "Oh, and while I'm playing in the big leagues, you guys stay out of my office!" Alex shooed the men out and locked the door. "Later, boys." She snapped off a mock salute and then she was gone.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien sat slouched at his desk in the office both he and Hobbes shared. "Bobby, you've got to be kidding me. I mean, when the 'Fish first told me that I had to sit through Monroe's little CTS seminar with Eberts, I thought it was stupid but at least it might be entertaining. But  **this** ," he picked up a sheaf of papers marked "Training Syllabus" and shook it at his partner, "this is ridiculous! Look at this: International Relations, Economics, Physical Science, Target Practice, Hand-to-Hand Combat! This is the equivalent of spook Harvard! C'mon, man, you can  **not**  be serious ...."

"Serious as a heart attack, my friend. The 'Fish wants you trained pronto. Seems your less-than-stellar spook skills didn't impress the bigwigs over at the FBI during your little sojourn there, Golden Boy. As a result, the Fat Man looks like something of a joke in the intelligence community," Bobby said. "And in his book, a bad showing on  **your**  part means a bad showing on  **my**  part, partner. In fact, the Fat Man has let it be known in no uncertain terms that unless you pass the agent-training practical exam with flying colors by the end of next quarter, I can kiss my yearly bonus goodbye." Bobby leaned in closer and poked Darien in the shoulder, "so if your learning self-defense, firearms, CTS,  **whatever** , is what it's gonna take to get me that increase, then  **you** , my friend, are gonna learn, capish?" Bobby tilted his head, staring in first one of Darien's eyes and then the other.

"Ah, yeah, OK, Bobby, capish." Darien slouched further down and crossed his arms.

"OK." Bobby thrust his chest out and put his hands on his hips. "Lesson number one: A good agent is an expert in many areas; his mind is his strongest weapon."

"Oh, yeah? So tell me then, how'd you pass?"

"Very funny there, grasshopper. I'll have you know I passed with flying colors, thank you very much. But we're not talkin' 'bout me, we're talkin' 'bout you. And  **you**  have got a lot to learn ...."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien stood at one end of a large boxing ring at one of the seedier local gyms. Dressed in torn black sweatpants cut into baggy shorts, a dingy white wifebeater and his favorite Converse All-Stars, he fit right in with the regular clientele, who were huffing and puffing as they hoisted free weights and bench-pressed away.

Standing at the other end of the ring, and in marked comparison, was his opponent. For once eschewing his ubiquitous suit and tie, Eberts had dressed in his version of workout gear: pristine white Nike Air Max sneakers, navy sweats that looked suspiciously as if they'd been pressed, a freshly washed "May the Force Be with You" T-shirt and matching red, white and blue striped head and wrist sweatbands.

Bobby stood in the center of the ring, managing to look both clean and comfortable in his well-worn gray fleece sweatsuit. "Alright, gentlemen," he bellowed in his best drill sergeant tone. "The purpose of this next exercise is for you to get real-life, hand-to-hand combat experience. You will fight your opponent using the techniques we've learned over the last few weeks. The first man to take his opponent down and keep him there for three seconds wins. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Eberts snapped to attention.

"Yeah," Darien mumbled.

"I can't hear you, Agent Fawkes!" Bobby went nose to nose with the slouching man.

"Yes, sir," Darien mocked in a singsong tone, hands on his hips, "Hobbes, this is  **stupid**."

"Agent Fawkes, did I give you permission to speak freely?" Bobby demanded as he crossed back to the center of the ring.

"Ah, no, but that hasn't stopped me yet. Like I said, this is stupid," Darien pointed across the ring at his fastidious opponent. "Am I really gonna have to pound Ebes here to prove to you that I know how to fight?"

"I beg to differ with you, Darien," Eberts protested, "the outcome of this fight is as of yet undetermined. I have studied a number of the pugilistic arts, including those Agent Hobbes so recently demonstrated. It could, conceivably, be you that gets, uhm, pounded."

Darien's "Yeah, right," was muffled as Hobbes slapped Eberts on the back. "Atta boy, Agent Eberts." Bobby crossed the ring to face his partner. "That's the kind of fighting spirit Bobby Hobbes likes to see. You'd do well to learn from him, Agent Fawkes." Bobby leaned in close to Darien's ear and added a hushed, "and if you don't TKO this cream puff in 15 seconds or less, I am seriously going to start thinking you're a little 'light in the loafers' there, partner, if you know what I mean." Bobby strutted back to the middle of the ring, slapped his hands and rubbed them together in anticipation. "Alright, gentlemen, you've been given your mission orders. Any questions?"

Eberts held up his hand. "Ah, yes, sir, Agent Hobbes, sir! Would you prefer us to use the Wu Shu techniques you showed us this week or the more traditional Wang Chung methodology you demonstrated last week?"

"That's a good question, Agent Eberts," Bobby barked. "You may use any and all of the martial arts skills I have taught you. The point is not to stick to any one school but rather to demonstrate the sum total of the knowledge you have gained in your training over the last few weeks and your ability to use that knowledge to best your opponent." Bobby stepped to the outer edge of the ring. "Alright, then, on the count of three. One. Two. Three!"

Eberts hustled out to the middle of the ring. Darien rolled his eyes and sauntered out of his corner, cracking and snapping his gum, all the while throwing his skinny frame into caricatures of classic martial arts poses. The huskier agent circled his prey once, twice, then rushed him. Darien stepped out of the way and Eberts smacked into the ring's ropes.

"Are you gonna let the punk get away with that, soldier?" Hobbes egged Eberts on.

The youngest agent growled, then feinted to his opponent’s left. Darien saw the move and stepped in the opposite direction -- which was just what Eberts had anticipated. He grabbed Darien’s right wrist, stepped behind the taller man, and snapped Darien into a choke hold.

Darien gasped for air and then swung his right leg backward, wrapping his foot behind Eberts’ knee and pulling forward. Eberts stumbled back, loosening his hold around Darien’s neck slightly as he attempted to regain his balance. That was all the lee-way that Darien needed. He spun around, jerking his wrist from Eberts’ grasp and delivered a sharp blow to Eberts’ midsection.

Eberts rolled with the punch and grabbed Darien’s arm, pulling hard. Darien was jerked forward, his balance seriously compromised, and Eberts hooked his foot between Darien’s legs, sending the taller man careening to the floor. Darien just barely managed to roll out of the way of what would have been a very painful blow to the chest and leapt back to his feet, assuming a defensive posture.

Hobbes watched, spellbound, as Eberts came at Darien with another attack. Darien had been expecting this one, however, and easily jumped out of the way, giving Eberts a swift kick in the ribs. Eberts staggered, but managed to block Darien’s next blow. The two of them began attacking each other ferociously, kicking and punching as if it was their lives, not their grades, that depended on the outcome of the fight.

Darien could feel sweat trickling down his back, and his breath was beginning to come in gasps. Eberts was proving a lot more difficult knock to the floor than Darien had thought he’d be. Darien fully intended to win this fight, but the more Eberts blocked his attacks the less likely it seemed that he would be able to make good on his intentions.

And then Darien thought of something Eberts wouldn’t be expecting, something that might give him a bit of an edge. A cocky grin spread across his face as he moved from the defensive position that Hobbes had recently taught him to a much more familiar -- at least for him -- street-fighting stance. Sure, this particular move hadn't been part of the bag of tricks Hobbes had been pushing the last couple of weeks, but it damn sure was effective. Darien felt a pang of sympathy for Eberts as he remembered being on the receiving end of just such a maneuver plenty of times back in the joint. Then he brushed that thought away and steeled himself. In the ring, as in prison, nice guys not only finished last, they got their asses kicked doing it.

Eberts paused, confusion flickering across his face at Darien’s unexpected, unorthodox technique. "Hey, that’s not--" he started to say, but was cut off as Darien slammed a fist full-force into his solar plexus. Eberts gasped and doubled over in pain. Darien pulled back his fist and slammed it into Eberts’ chin in a classic haymaker. Eberts teetered for a moment and then fell to the ground. He made a feeble attempt to get back to his feet, but then collapsed on the mat, down for the count.

Darien stood there with his hands on his knees, gasping for breath and looking up, his face flushed with exertion and victory. His triumphant expression faded, however, as he looked over at Hobbes and saw the older man shaking his head in obvious disgust. "Congratulations, Fawkes," he said, walking over to Darien and giving him a stern look, "you’ve just been disqualified. That means that officially, Eberts just kicked your ass."

Darien jerked upright and looked down at Hobbes in disbelief. "You’ve gotta be kidding me!"

"Afraid not, my friend."

Darien leaned down so that he and Hobbes were face to face and hissed, "Look, I get my ass kicked plenty. If anybody knows what an ass kicking feels like, it's  **me**. And that," he gestured over at Eberts, "is an ass-kicking. So how come if I’m the one who got his ass kicked, Eberts is the one with his face pressed into the mat?"

Hobbes crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing at the perceived challenge to his authority. "Because haymakers weren’t included in the martial arts lesson, that’s why." He paused for a moment to let that sink in. "Street fighting won’t cut it on the final exam or, more importantly, in the field when some frickin' Chrysalis ninja tries to rip you a new one. What, you thought I was teaching you Wu Shu just for the hell of it?"

Darien rolled his eyes. "Come on Hobbes, it’s obvious that I won. What does it matter how I did it?"

"You wanna know what it matters?" Hobbes asked, the muscles in his jaw tightening. "Then just try that crap on me."

Darien gave Hobbes a suspicious look. "Will I get sent to detention for hitting the teacher?" Hobbes shook his head. Darien grinned. "OK then." He took on his street-fighting stance again, but hesitated to attack when he saw that Hobbes wasn’t putting up any kind of defense. Darien frowned. What was Hobbes trying to prove?

A few seconds later, when Hobbes still hadn’t taken a defensive posture, Darien gave a mental shrug and began his attack. Much to his surprise, Hobbes easily dodged the first blow. Darien pulled back and attacked a second time, but once again Hobbes easily dodged his moves. More than a little annoyed now, Darien lunged forward figuring the third time would be the charm and prepared to deliver a haymaker to end all haymakers. He never got the chance to make good on his plan, though. Hobbes grabbed his arm and flipped him over in one lighting quick move. Before Darien knew what hit him, he was slammed hard onto the mat right next to Eberts.

Darien moaned, squeezing his eyes shut in pain. When he opened them Hobbes was standing above him, a stern expression on his face. "You don’t know everything, my friend."

Darien groaned by way of reply, rolling over to find himself face to face with Eberts, who was once again attempting to get up off the mat. The two of them managed to sit up, each rubbing at places where bruises would quite likely be forming soon. Darien gave Eberts a hound dog look. "Sorry about decking you there, Ebes."

Eberts stood to his feet, wincing. "Think nothing of it. Next time, I'll be the one doing the 'decking,' as you put it."

Darien shook his head, rubbing the spot where he had landed the hardest. "This is gonna be a long day ...."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

His rangy frame sprawled on one of two double beds covered in burnt-orange plaid coverlets, Darien lay flipping through TV channels with the remote. "For God's sake, Hobbes, if I've gotta be holed up in a hotel room with you and Eberts, the least you could do is order room service. I'm  **starving**."

"Fawkes, we are here to observe, not eat." Bobby stood behind Eberts, who was studying the convention center across the way through a pair of high-powered binoculars. "Now remember, Eberts, just take your time and make a thorough observation of any suspicious activity. We'll concentrate on speed later. Eventually, reconn will be so ingrained, it'll be just like breathing. You'll be able to make a terrorist operative without blinking an eye while romancing the ladies and debating the finer qualities of single malt scotches with your fellow bean counters at the bar. "

Darien rolled his eyes at Hobbes' commentary. "That's only if we survive that long. C'mon, Bobby, how's about a pizza -- I'll even let you get anchovies on your half. It's on the Official," he tried hopefully.

Eberts removed the binoculars he'd been using to stare out the window and turned to admonish, "Darien, you know the Official's policy regarding the per diem for field agents on assignment."

"Ebes, man, the Agency doesn't have a per diem."

"Exactly. Any costs incurred during this training excursion, including food and drink, will come out of each agent's pay."

"Great. So, not only am I gonna be stuck in here with you two all day, I'm gonna starve too," Darien whined. "It's official: I'm in Hell."

Bobby grimaced, then pulled the binoculars from Eberts' hands and threw them on the bed. "Fine, you're so bored, you take the binoculars. You've got just 15 minutes to give me a detailed sitrep, not one minute more." Sinking into the room's only armchair, he muttered, "smartass."

Darien picked up the binoculars and went to the window. He fiddled with the lens focus for a moment or two then stood silently observing the activity across the street. After watching people come and go from the convention center for a scant five minutes, he put the binoculars down on the table in front of the window and went back to flipping channels on TV.

"That's it?" Hobbes asked.

"Yeah, that's it." Darien picked up the room service menu again. "Are you sure you don't want to order a pizza? I'm  **hungry**."

"Damn it, Fawkes, would you get serious? This is  **not**  a game we're playing here. Pay a little attention, would you?"

"Listen, I'll start paying attention when you start teaching me something I don't already know." Darien pointedly pressed a button on the remote. "Until then, I'm watching the Cartoon Network. Wake me when you're done with Ebes, OK?"

"Excuse me, Darien, but I take umbrage at your continued depiction of me as the lesser skilled agent. In fact, I have had significantly more training than you in preparation for my transfer to The Agency ...."

"Shut up, Eberts!" Darien and Hobbes yelled in stereo.

"So, Calvin, you think I'm wasting your time here, huh?" The vein in the senior agent's temple pulsed.

"Ah, yeah, Hobbes, I  **do**." Darien rose from the bed and stood facing his partner with his hands on his slim hips.

"Oh, no." Eberts grabbed the binoculars and retreated to a safe corner of the room.

Hobbes exhaled forcibly through his nose, the breath taking seemingly forever. "I see. Well then, you wanna dazzle me with the sheer brilliance of that 'detailed' site assessment you just made, Mr. Hot-Shot Know-It-All?"

Darien let out an answering breath, pursed his lips and ran a tongue along the front of his teeth. "Sure. Fine. Why not?" He pulled up a finger and began ticking off, "You got three main entrances -- one on either side and one in the middle. At each entrance you got two guards manning a security checkpoint -- one watching the scanner, one directing traffic through the metal detectors. You've also got a two-man patrol roaming the interior lobby at 2.5 minute intervals. Weak point is on the left -- dude's more interested in his coffee than in the scanner, so the other dude has to pick up the slack. That leaves the end section of the lobby left unwatched when the patrol is making its return trip to the other end of the lobby. It'd be a piece of cake to slip out of line and bypass security during that gap, then make your way to any of the floors via the stairwell next to the coat check room. And if you've got a partner causing a ruckus at the checkpoint in the middle, you could wheel the frickin' Mona Lisa out in its frame and nobody'd see you." Darien crossed his arms and returned to the bed. "Satisfied? I mean, please, give me some credit here. You act like I've never cased a joint before in my life. It's kind of insulting, really."

"Insulting? You think it's insulting? I'll tell you what's insulting, Fawkes. What's insulting is you comparing our mission of protecting the public to pulling some penny-ante boost. When are you gonna get it through your thick skull that you're playing with the white hats now? It's a whole different ballgame."

"No, it ain't. Seriously, you guys act like it's some sort of super-secret, crime-fighting brotherhood. Well, I got a news flash for ya here, Hobbes: you're not Batman, and Ebes ain't Robin. I was 15 when Liz first taught me to case a joint and the basics are still the same whether you're pulling a heist or preventing a bombing. Look for the weaknesses inherent to the security system, then capitalize on them. And 9 out of 10 times, those weaknesses are  **human**."

"OK, you're such a crackerjack agent all of a sudden, maybe you'd like to try your hand at one of the BFM files from the FBI?"

"The Big Frickin' Mess files?" Darien looked up at Hobbes and licked his lips, "what, you want me to break into the FBI and steal files from another agency? Hobbesy, I'm appalled."

Bobby smirked at Darien. "What? Poor li'l Fawkesy afraid big bad Jonesy's gonna catch him with his hand in the cookie jar?"

Darien just snorted. "So, supposing I get this file. What am I supposed to do with it then?"

"Solve it."

"Solve it?"

"Solve it."

"You think I can't?"

"I think you can't."

Darien nudged Eberts in the mid-section. "He thinks I can't."

"Ah, gentlemen, I feel it's my duty to point out that the plan you are currently setting out to embark upon is, in all likelihood, patently illegal. The FBI's files are completely in their purview and therefore we have absolutely no grounds to claim jurisdiction ...."

"Well,  **Eberts** , you might be right." Bobby swaggered over, backing Eberts farther up into the corner, and poking at the mild-mannered accountant. " **If**  the crime scene hadn't been the site of a national monument, and  **if**  key evidence hadn't been found near a critical body of water that's home to an endangered species."

"Ah hah, you've got a case in mind then?"

"Oh yeah, I got one for ya."

"You hear that, Ebes? He's got one for us," Darien clapped an arm around Eberts' shoulders, tacitly including the hapless agent in their secret partnership. "Well, bring it on."

Eberts cringed. "Oh no."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Two

 

Late that night, Bobby pulled Golda up in front of the FBI offices. Darien, sitting in the passenger seat, looked up at the dark building and grinned. Pulling a B&E had always given him that special glow. Adding invisibility and the fact that this was the FBI -- an organization he'd grown to loathe during his brief tenure as their toy-du-jour -- only heightened the rush.

"Alright Fawkes, you’re on," Hobbes said, giving Darien a pointed look.

Darien glared over at Bobby, not particularly appreciating the interruption of his train of thought. "Why did you have to come?"

"Hey, Bobby Hobbes is the teacher here, my friend. I have a right to evaluate the skills of my students. Besides," Bobby continued with a twinkle in his eye, "I need to make sure you grab the right file." He leaned over and handed Darien a radio headset. "Here, you’ll need this."

Darien shrugged and donned the headset. "Alright, we’ll play it your way." He hopped out of Golda and began walking toward the FBI building, Quicksilvering as he went.

After taking the time to deactivate the security cameras and alarms purely out of habit, Darien made his way to a familiar looking file cabinet -- not that they'd allowed him anywhere near actual case files during those few days when he'd actually been on the FBI's payroll. Nope, the last time he had seen the BFM file drawer had been when he and Hobbes had gone looking for explanations as to why Claire had suddenly gone berserk and tried to kill a complete stranger. Darien shook his head: not exactly the fondest memories... He crouched down and opened the file cabinet carefully, flipping through to the BFM files. "Alright, what’s the file number?" he asked Hobbes, curious to see which case his partner had in mind.

"Number 7012-0597-0235," Hobbes said, his voice distorted by static from the headset.

Darien winced. "You have gotta get some new headphones, man. You sound like one of those drive-through speakers at Jack-in-the-Box." He began thumbing through the files, smiling when he came across the right one. "Okay Hobbes, I’ve got the file. I’m outta here."

"You can’t just swipe the file! The Feds’ll get suspicious if a case file goes missing. It’s the copy machine for you, partner."

Darien frowned. "Oh no. Not the copy machine, man! No way am I going up against that frickin' thing again. Remember last time?" Visions of papers swirling about the copy room as he helplessly tried to wrestle the electronic beast into submission assaulted Darien's memory. "I swear, that thing is out to get me! And it sure ain't gonna like me using it to copy BFM files again."

"Aw come on, Fawkes ...." Bobby sighed. "Did you shut down the security systems?"

"Yeah."

"Alright, sit tight. I’m comin’." Darien could just barely hear the sounds of Hobbes opening and slamming Golda’s door and then the faint sounds of footsteps as Hobbes walked toward the FBI building, muttering, "Now I know what they missed on the entrance exams... knowing how to work a copy machine should be mandatory. 'Sides, I thought I was supposed to be the paranoid one in this partnership ...."

"I heard that."

"You were supposed to. I can’t believe you still don’t know how to work a copy machine."

"What, you thought I would take time out of my precious schedule to learn?"

"After last time, yeah. Come on Fawkes, EVERYONE knows how to work a freakin’ copy machine!" That said, there were several minutes of silence as Hobbes navigated the dark halls of the FBI’s San Diego office, making his way to where his technologically-impaired partner waited. Bobby walked into the file room, glancing over at Darien. He pulled off his headset and grabbed the file out of Darien’s hands. "Alright, let’s get this sucker copied. You, my friend, are about to receive a crash course in the operation of the Copymaster 2350."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Less than 30 minutes later, Darien and Bobby walked out of the FBI building. Bobby, moving with a relaxed swagger, had a copy of the BFM file in his hands; Darien slouched after him, rubbing absently at the toner powder smudged on his fingers and face, run through with dried rivulets of sweat.

The two men walked over to Golda and climbed in. Hobbes placed the keys in the ignition, handed the file to Darien, and drove away with nary a glance back at the federal building they had just broken into.

Darien placed his feet up on the dashboard, resting the sheaf of papers on his black-clad knees, and began to peruse the file. He raised an eyebrow as the names of the investigating agents caught his eye. "Hey Hobbesy, why didn’t you tell me you were the dude who worked this case? And with the twit, no less."

Bobby raised an eyebrow as Darien said ‘the twit.’ "You mean Jones?"

"Hey, he calls you Lithium Bob. I can call him a twit."

Bobby shrugged. "I figured it wasn’t important."

Darien snorted in disbelief. "You figured it wasn’t important? You give me a case that stumped the unstumpable Bobby Hobbes and you figure it isn’t important?" Bobby’s eyes narrowed slightly at Darien’s comment, but he said nothing. Darien shook his head. "I knew you were up to something. Well, I got news for you buddy. I  **am**  going to solve this case." The corners of Darien’s mouth turned up in a sardonic grin. "I might just be able to teach you a thing or two."

Bobby’s eyes twinkled in something akin to amusement. "If you solve it."

" **When**  I solve it," Darien replied stubbornly, crossing his arms and giving Bobby a pointed look.

"How do you expect to solve it when you haven’t even finished reading the file?"

Darien’s face reddened, and he dropped his gaze back to the file in question, once again picking up the stack of copied papers. Bobby glanced over at Darien and asked in a scholarly tone, "Alright, tell me what you see there, John Edwards."

Darien turned his full attention to the files in his hands for a few moments, then looked back up at Bobby. "Well, it’s a homicide case ...," he turned his attention back to the papers and frowned. "Hey wait, I remember hearing about this on the news a while back. George Pappadamos was Senator Irene McEvy’s aide, right? The anti-nuclear proliferation chick? He disappeared back in May of ‘97. They found his body along the shore at the Cabrillo National Monument a month or two later. I think some whale watcher dude found the body."

Hobbes nodded. "Yeah, that’s the one all right. Now, what’s wrong with this picture?"

Darien gave Hobbes an exasperated look. "Nothing’s wrong with it! I mean, they never found the killer or the murder weapon, but they found the body. Why’d you have me dig this case out of the files? It’s  **five** -years old, Hobbes. Trust me, it's  **dead**  -- just like George." He made a slashing motion at his neck. "Nothing left to solve."

Bobby’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel, and a deep scowl clouded his face. "You’re so sure about that, huh? Well, I got news for you, partner. You wanted to try your hand at a BFM? Well, that there is a bona fide BFM, and you are not gonna find any easier cases, I can assure you of that." He wagged a finger at Darien. "Now you listen to me, Fawkes. You are going to put your nose to the grindstone and you are going to treat this as if it were still an open case. That means conducting interviews and investigating leads, no matter how old. Unless you wanna wimp out or something, that is," he said, bristling with annoyance and giving Darien a challenging look.

Darien straightened up in his seat, twisting his lips and absently spiking his hair in frustration. "Okay, you want me to do some investigating?" He threw the papers in his lap into the air, causing Hobbes to have a momentary panic attack as they fluttered in front of his face, disrupting his field of vision. "Fine! I’ll investigate the hell out of it."

Bobby yanked hard on his steering wheel and slammed on the brakes, sending Golda skidding over to the side of the road and pinning Darien up against his seatbelt. He looked over at Darien, his expression livid. "I am sick of you acting like a petulant two-year-old! You are going to clean up those papers you threw all over. And in the morning, you are going to get up bright and early and start working on this case. Understood?"

Darien raised an eyebrow. "Petulant?" Hobbes just glared. After a moment, Darien rolled his eyes and threw up his hands in capitulation. "Alright, alright." He began picking up the papers he had scattered across the cab of the van, muttering, "Man, Hobbesy, you’re worse than my third-grade math teacher."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Absently humming "Hi-ho, Hi-ho" to himself, Darien bopped through The Agency's front doors at 8:15 a.m. sharp. Catching sight of himself in the glass of one of the office doors that lined the hallway, he stopped to adjust his unruly hair and run a hand over the stubble of his haphazard goatee. Perhaps he hadn't been as awake as he'd thought when performing his morning ablutions.

He was putting the finishing touches on his coif when his make-shift mirror suddenly swung open and he was run over by a stack of files. Darien found himself flat on his back with papers flying everywhere and a chagrinned Eberts staring down at him. "Oh, Darien, I'm sorry. I didn't see you there." The plump man held out a hand to help the lanky one get to his feet.

"Ah, yeah, I get that a lot." Darien ignored the proffered hand and climbed to his feet to look down at the file pages now hopelessly intermingled. "Oh man, Ebes, how are we ever gonna get these sorted? Bobby's gonna have my  **ass**...."

Eberts smiled up at his forlorn friend. "Never fear. For ease of collation I have color-coded the top left corner of all papers from Agency files." He looked askance, first up and then down the hall. Leaning closer to Darien, he put a finger on the side of his nose and whispered, "It's also given me the edge in the speed filing heats for the past three years running. It's how I set the record."

He pushed Darien out of the way, dropped to his knees and in under three minutes was handing Darien back the completed BFM file. "I see Robert has you working the Pappadamos murder. That's one of his old cases, isn't it?"

Darien nodded, "Yes, it is."

"Hmmm, I see. So he expects you, an untrained operative, to solve a case he couldn't?" Eberts quirked his eyebrows at Darien and thinned his lips in obvious disapproval.

Darien saw his opening and took it, frowning and sighing, "Yeah, man, I know. I mean if the great Bobby Hobbes, master investigator and field operative extraordinaire, couldn't solve it, who could? It'd take one major smarty pants and a hell of an agent to make Hobbes look bad ...."

"So you'll need help then?"

"That's what I'm saying."

"Alright, where do we begin?"

"Ebes, man, I knew I you were my homey." Darien put his fist out in front of him.

Eberts stared at it for second, then realized what his cooler counterpart was expecting. He raised his own fist, tapped it against Darien's at the knuckles and repeated, "Ah, yes, your ... 'homey.'" He pulled the file from Darien's grasp and opened it between them. "Now from what I see here, you'll probably want to interview the Senator first off."

Darien stared blankly at the file. "Ah, I will?" Eberts stared up at him. "I mean, yeah, right, of course. That's exactly what I was thinking."

Eberts returned to sifting through the file. "Good. Now while you're speaking with Senator McEvy, I'll run a search through Lexis/Nexis, as well as the National Crime Information Center and all federal information databases, which will automatically pull any reference to Mr. Pappadamos or the Senator. I'll put particular emphasis on all payment and banking records. After all, if there's one thing I learned during my time at the IRS, it's if you want to ascertain the guilty party, you need to pursue the source of their funding."

"Huh?"

"If you want to find out who's dirty, you have to follow the money. That is, after all, how we caught Al Capone."

Eberts snapped the file shut and handed it back to Darien, who just stood there blinking. "Yeah, that's great, Ebes. You do that. I'm gonna, ah, go talk to the Senator."

Darien started back down the hall to The Agency's front doors when he heard Eberts call out. "We'll synchronize our findings later,  **partner**!"

Without breaking his stride or a backwards glance, Darien mumbled, "Yeah, right, whatever."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A fringe of twin palm trees edged the serpentine driveway that ended in a large whitewashed stucco house with a red-tile roof and a central, open-air atrium. Darien half-expected there to be the stereotypical lawn jockey greeting him as he pulled up in front of an ornately carved oak door. A large black and brindle dog somewhere between a Doberman and a Rottweiler rushed him as he approached the front door. He had a moment's panic as he recalled the first time he'd been chased by a guard dog during one of his teenage heists. He'd ended up shredding his favorite leather jacket as he'd hotfooted it over the car lot's barbed wire fence, leaving the object of his desire, a candy apple red Mustang, behind. Now, however, his fear proved unfounded as the playful beast flopped onto its back at his feet, wiggling and wagging its tail. "What up, pup?" he asked as he rang the doorbell, "is your mom home?"

The door opened as Darien leaned down to pat the dog on its tummy, leaving him with a close-up view of two feet clad in a very tasteful pair of Etienne Aignier pumps. Turning his eyes and his head upward, Darien saw that the feet were attached to a very feminine pair of legs, which were, in turn, attached to a nicely toned body topped by a smiling face with wide hazel eyes and well-coifed strawberry blonde hair shot through with silver. "May I help you?"

"Ah, yeah -- Senator Irene McEvy?" Darien stood and held out his hand in greeting.

"Well, ex-Senator now. And who are you?" The woman hadn't stopped smiling, but she hadn't moved from the doorway of her home either.

Darien dropped his hand and reached for his ID. Flipping it open, he explained, "My name's Darien Fawkes and I'm, ah, with The Department of Fish and Game. I was wondering if I could, uhm, you know, ask you a few questions."

The dog apparently realized the massage was over and trotted off towards the atrium. "What kind of questions?" Irene played with her wedding ring, twisting it around her finger.

"Oh, nothing you probably haven't heard before. I'm just trying to gather some information on George Pappadamos, your aide who disappeared."

"You mean was murdered, don't you? That was a long time ago, Agent Fawkes. I gave numerous interviews to both the police and the FBI at the time. I can't imagine there's anything left to say on that matter -- particularly not to a Fish and Game agent."

"Ah, yah, I know," Darien bobbed up and down nervously on his long legs. "But ah, since the, uh ... body and uhm, bloody ...," he stopped as Senator McEvy grimaced at his detail, "the ah, you know, evidence was found at a national monument where, uh, there are, ah, whales ... and as you, ah, know, whales are uhm, endangered ... sit's actually, ah, within Fish and Game's charter ... kinda sorta."

"Oh please, don't try and con me. I used to be a Senator, remember? The fact is, you have no legitimate jurisdiction and I don't have to answer any of your questions." She turned to retreat into the house.

Darien crossed his arms, leaned against the door jam, and cocked his eyebrows. "Well, that may be true. But then again, why not answer my questions? After all, you've got nothing to hide, right?"

Irene sighed, stepped into the house and motioned for Darien to do the same. "I can see you're not going to leave this alone. But tell me: why, after all this time, are you so interested in what happened to George?"

"Hey, I thought I was supposed to be the one asking the questions around here?" Darien followed her through a house that was ripe for the picking. He noted a collection of hefty, antique silver candlesticks on the mantle, at least two original O'Keefe's on the living room walls and an extremely bourgeois "Don Quixote" lithograph that more than likely hid the wall safe. Darien plopped down onto a pearl leather pub-back couch that could easily have accommodated his outstretched lanky frame with room to spare. "So you, ah, worked on the Senate subcommittee for nuclear exports back when George was working for you? The one that was run by that big Senator ... ah, Harkin, right? Senator Thomas Harkin from Oklahoma?" He snapped his gum as she nodded.

"The subcommittee on International Security, Proliferation, and Federal Services, yes. We were tasked with evaluating how U.S. dual-use export control policies promoted military modernization and nuclear proliferation in other countries, most notably Russia and China. As subcommittee chairman, Senator Harkin received quite a bit of press coverage. Some even said he was being groomed for a run at the White House."

"Right. So basically you and your Senate buds were supposed to be trying to figure out where the loopholes were that allowed arms manufacturers to get rich by selling nuclear weapons to our enemies."

"Not exactly, Mr. Fawkes, and quite frankly, I'm surprised an experienced federal agent would put it so carelessly. We were trying to ascertain the efficacy of U.S. policy in preventing or exacerbating proliferant activities in high-risk nations."

"Damn. You really were a politician, weren't you?"

Irene's gaze faded over to the glass wall facing the atrium, from which high-pitched squeals of laughter were ringing. "Yes. I was." Her lips suppressed themselves into a thin line.

"But you left public life shortly after George's murder?"

She nodded once again and smoothed the skirt of her butter-colored, silk sundress. "Once I found out I was pregnant. My husband and I had been trying for so long to have a family that when I finally did conceive, I decided to leave public life and dedicate myself to raising my daughter."

Darien looked up to the portrait over the mantel. A twenty-something Irene, resplendent in ivory satin and lace, stood beaming at a sandy-haired man in a tuxedo. "That your husband there?"

Irene smiled faintly and twisted her ring. "Yes. That's Stephen. Hard to believe that picture was taken close to 25 years ago now." She sighed and passed a hand over her eyes. "Is there anything else, Agent Fawkes?"

Darien stood from the sofa, briefly stretching his long limbs and cracking his back. "Ah, no, that should be all. Thank you, Senator."

"Oh, that's just plain Mrs. McEvy now," she corrected, escorting him back to the door. She opened it and held out her hand as he stepped through, back into the front yard. "Good bye."

Darien shook her hand, then turned to go, only to have to jump out of the way when the dog came barreling through the yard yet again. This time she was followed in hot pursuit by a small child in a bright pink bathing suit with a sheaf of jet black hair dripping down her back. The girl howled as she raised what looked like a neon green bazooka and shot a steady stream of water at the galloping animal and anything in its path -- including Darien.

"Rikki," her mother scolded, "how many times have I told you not to chase the dog with your Super-Soaker?" The little girl just giggled and took off after the dog back into the atrium. Darien wiped the water from his jacket. "Oh, I am so sorry. She's such a little handful -- always getting into something."

"Ah, yah, I think I may have known a kid like that once," Darien grinned. "Thanks again." He started towards his car, then turned back to the woman. "Excuse me, Mrs. McEvy, just one more thing. When was the last time you saw George? Alive, that is?"

Irene gave an automatic glance at the direction her daughter had gone, then came down the path to where Darien stood. In a low voice, she answered, "We took the 7 p.m. flight home from D.C. together. It was May 25, I think -- the Tuesday before the Memorial Day weekend. We were both coming home to spend the holiday with our families."

"So you didn't see him at all once you were back in San Diego?"

She shook her head. "No, Mr. Fawkes. I didn't. In fact, we didn't even speak after we landed." She dropped her eyes to the pavement. "My husband met me at the airport."

"Ah hah. I see." Darien nodded to himself. "Thank you, again. You've been very cooperative."

Irene swung her gaze back up to Darien's. "Believe it or not, I  **do**  hope you find whoever was responsible for what happened to George. I'm sorry I couldn't be of more help." She marched back up the path and shut the door.

Darien walked in the opposite direction and climbed into his car. Seemingly on autopilot as he sifted through the bits of information gleaned from his interview, he failed to notice the three men in cream-colored suits watching from the road when he pulled through the front gates and headed back to The Agency.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Carrying a gargantuan Starbuck's cup, Bobby entered his office. He put the cup gingerly down on his desk, then seated himself. He removed the lid, lifted the cup to his nose and gave a deep sniff, followed by a satisfied, "ahhhh." Putting the cup back down again, he crossed his eyes and tried to lick the foam off the end of his nose.

"It's good to see you hard at work, Hobbes." The imperious tones of The Official heralded his arrival.

Bobby froze for a second, his eyes going wide, then he reached into a drawer, pulled out a napkin and quickly wiped the foam away. "Oh, ah, sir! What a ... ah, surprise it is to see you down here," Bobby replied obsequiously as he came around the desk to greet his boss. "Not to mention what an honor it is ... I mean it's so rare that you visit the field agents in their offices ... the boys are going to be jealous of me for a month ...."

The Official walked past Hobbes, straight to the agent's chair. He sat down in Hobbes' place, grabbed Bobby's cup and began sipping at his latte. Bobby watched helplessly as the rotund bureaucrat appropriated his afternoon treat. "Uhm, if you don't mind me asking, sir, what does bring you down here?" The Official took another sip of the latte and frowned. "Not that it's not a pleasure, of course, to see you ... or that you shouldn't feel free to come down to my office anytime. After all, you do run this Agency. Yessir, the head honcho, that's you ... the Big Kahuna ... the head cheese ...."

"You got any more sugar?"

"Oh, ah, in the top right drawer there, sir ...." Bobby tugged at his collar as he waited for his boss to explain the nature of his visit. "You know, if this is about those Internet files, I can assure you that they were all  **imperative**  to ongoing investigations, no matter what the little weasel might claim ...."

The Official grabbed five extra packets of sugar, dumped them into the coffee and began to sip again. "Ah, yes, that's better. Now, where's your partner?"

"He's, ah, out on an investigation ...."

"He's where?"

"Out on an investigation. You see, sir, I developed this as a sort of training exercise ...."

"I'll tell you what I see, Hobbes. I told you to  **tutor**  Darien, not turn him loose on the unsuspecting public. I entrust that boy's mind to you and you send him off higgeldy-piggeldy -- with no supervision? No guidance?"

Bobby stared down at his feet as he shuffled them. "Uh, no, sir, it's not like that at all. As I was saying, this is a  **training**  exercise, of sorts. To teach him to really put his mind to assessing the evidence ...."

"Of sorts? You of all people, Hobbes, should know how much trouble that kid can get into when he puts his mind to it." The Official leaned over Hobbes' desk and shook his finger. "Now you listen to me, Hobbes. You had better be extremely careful about what kind of exercises you send him out on. I want my $17 million investment trained, not dead."

"Oh, crap, what's he done now?"

"Woken a sleeping dog -- one with whom The Agency has a remarkably profitable relationship." The Official rose and stalked over to the exit. "I want this investigation stopped  **now**." He walked out, wagging his finger over his back and warning, "Or it will come out of your paycheck, Bobby. That's a  **promise**."

Bobby returned to his seat, eyed his hijacked coffee cup, grimaced, and dropped it into the garbage. "Atta boy, Fawkes," he murmured, the corners of his mouth turning up a bit, "atta boy."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Three

 

"Darien," Eberts called. The tall man at the other end of the hall just kept on walking. "Darien," Eberts tried again. Still no response. "Fawkes!" he called finally.

Fresh from his interview with Senator McEvy, Darien was still in a world of his own. But the sound of someone calling 'Fawkes' down the hall registered in his brain as potentially being Bobby and so he turned. "Oh, hey, Ebes. Man, we have got to stop meeting in the hall like this -- people are gonna start talking," Darien scratched his ear and quirked his lips to the side, "uhm, what'd you call me?"

"My apologies, Darien. But it was imperative that I get your attention."

"Wow," Darien motioned at the thick file Eberts had tucked under his arm. "That must mean you got some good stuff for me there ...."

"Oh, well, yes, actually, I did manage to collect quite a dossier on Mr. Pappadamos, as well as Senators McEvy and Harkin." He handed the file to Darien, who tore into it like a hungry man tearing into a steak. "But that's not why I wanted to speak with you."

"It's not?" Darien asked idly, already consumed by the new information. "Hey, what's this? It says here that George's mom never gave him a headstone?"

Eberts peered over at the page to which Darien was pointing. "Yes, that is correct. Mrs. Pappadamos has failed to erect a memorial at George's gravesite."

"Hmmm ...." Darien returned to flipping through the pages.

Eberts grabbed Darien's forearm. "Darien, you have to stop this investigation."

Darien stared first at Eberts' hand and then at his face. His friend was pale and visibly shaken. "Ebes, man, what's up?"

"The Official and I were following our standard afternoon regime: some judicious budgetary juggling and then at two our favorite soap ... err, CNN commentator comes on. Only this time, during the third scene ... ah, interview, the phone rang. Unfortunately, I was too busy monitoring the ... uhm, broadcast to fully comprehend the importance of that conversation. But I can tell you that once the Official hung up, he went straight to Robert's office."

"Wait a minute -- you're telling me that the Fat Man actually went down to see Hobbes personally instead of sending you or hauling Hobbes into his office?" Darien grimaced at Eberts nod. "Oh, man, this can't be good ...."

"No, no, it can't. Which is exactly why you are to cease and desist from any further investigation into this matter."

"Wait, Ebes. I thought you said you didn't hear what the 'Fish was talking about on the phone. How do you know any of this has anything to do with this case?"

"Darien, on the day you begin investigating a former case of Robert's, based on information contained in a file you  **stole**  from the FBI, the Official receives a phone call that disturbs him enough to send him down to Robert's and your office, personally. I don't believe it's too far-fetched to hypothesize from that data that your investigation is what has upset The Official. "

"Hmmm, no, I guess you don't need to be a five-star to figure that out, huh?"

"No, you don't. Particularly since he then ordered me to direct you to his office the moment you returned to The Agency."

"Well, then, I guess I better not be here. 'Cuz I can't hear what he can't tell me if I'm not here, right?" Darien turned and began walking towards The Agency's exit for the second time that day.

"Wait a minute, Darien -- where are you going?" Eberts shouted at his retreating back.

"To see George's mother."

"But, but ... why?"

"Because nobody leaves their son's grave without a headstone for five years unless something is  **up** , that's why."

Eberts watched Darien's lean frame disappear through The Agency's front doors. "Oh no."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"My boy -- he was good looking, you know. All the girls were crazy for Georgie. Here, see for yourself," the old woman walked over to the piano without hesitation in the dimly lit apartment and lifted a tarnished silver frame. When Darien rose from his armchair to help her, she waved him away. "I know you must think I'm crazy -- a blind old lady who keeps pictures out that she can't see anymore. But I know that they're there and so they comfort me. Now look," she commanded as she handed Darien the frame and resumed her seat.

Darien stared into the eyes of a handsome young Adonis, perhaps no more than 25 years old. The face was intelligent, with full lips and jet black hair and eyes. And it gave Darien an unsettling sense of déjà vu when he looked at it.

"You see, good looking, no? Just like his father at that age." The old woman's voice broke the silence. "All the girls on Mykonos had their caps set for Spiro, but he only had eyes for me. And Georgie, he was the same. He never had a problem getting girlfriends. And he would have married and made me a grandmother by now, if not for that ... that  **woman** ," she spat out.

"Ah, woman?" Darien placed the picture on the oval, cherry wood coffee table. "What woman, Mrs. Pappadamos?"

"That woman -- the senator. Mrs. Irene McEvy." George's mother grimaced. "She was a married woman -- and his  **boss**. If he had been a girl and she a man, there would have been an investigation. But because my son was a man, they don't listen to me. She stole my son from me and they do  **nothing**. Where is the justice in that?"

"I'm sorry. Are you saying that the Senator and your son were, uhm, involved?" Darien knitted his eyebrows and gestured at the picture as if the old lady could see him.

"Yes, exactly. This is what I am saying. And what I have been saying for the last five years to anyone I could find who would listen. And still they do not change -- they do not admit what they have done."

Darien leaned in towards the woman, as if by getting closer to her he could get closer to the truth. "You think the Senator had something to do with your son's murder?"

The old lady cocked her head. "Yes ... and no. They gave me a body to bury. They thought they could fool the blind old lady, that I'd just take their word that my son was dead. But they couldn't fool me then and they can't fool me now. That's not my Georgie lying in that grave," the old lady leaned forward so that their heads were almost touching and snatched Darien's wrist. "I don't care what evidence they've got; that wasn't my son, Mr. Fawkes. A mother knows." She released him and slid back into her chair with a sigh. "It's not my Georgie," she repeated, wiping away the moisture from her eyes with her hand. "But that woman, she  **knows** , too. And it is her fault."

Darien scowled. He'd actually liked Senator McEvy, though it was clear she had been hiding something. Now Mrs. Pappadamos was suggesting that she was somehow involved in George's murder ... or at least it would have been murder if Mrs. Pappadamos believed her son was dead. Somehow, that made the prospects seem far more sinister in Darien's mind.

"Georgie, he was a good boy before he met her. Always he wanted to help people from the time he was a young boy," the old woman felt on the table until she grasped the frame and then held it to her heart. "I can still remember how he pestered me until I let him donate blood. Can you imagine, a teenager wanting to do that? But he did -- and he became a regular donor. I was worried about the needles and such, but he just told me, 'Mama, it takes so little of my time and it could save someone's life." That was how my Georgie thought. And that's why he decided to go into politics for a living.

"He was so excited to get that position as an aide to Senator McEvy. Now I curse the day he met that woman and went to work for those people. That committee was a joke. It was supposed to stop people from selling information on our nuclear weapons to Russia. But Georgie, he said there is something not right, that there were people on that committee who were more interested in making money than protecting the world. And you can't tell me that that woman wasn't one of them." She replaced the frame on the table. "You will have some tea now?"

"Ah, no, Mrs. Pappadamos. I ... uhm, need to get back to ... ah, work." Darien stood, anxious to return to chipping away at the puzzle he'd been presented with. "Thank you for your time."

"You will help me then? You will help me find out what happened to my Georgie?"

Darien mulled over her request as he walked to the door. This case was certainly full of contradictions. A murder that this woman now claimed wasn't a murder. A powerful senator who'd suddenly left public life to become a housewife. A government agency that rather than protecting the public interest it was charged to protect, might have sold it out. And strangest of all, somehow Hobbes had failed to mention any of this in his report. "I'll do my best to look into it, ma'am." He knew exactly where to start, too.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_As great Roman statesman named Publilius Sirus once warned, "It is well to learn caution by the misfortune of others." Well, I was dead set on learning all about George's misfortune, and in order to do that, it looked like I was gonna have to be anything **but**  cautious. 'Course it's always easier to be a little reckless when you've got a gland in your head that lets you go invisible ...._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

For the second time in as many days, Darien sat outside an FBI facility late at night. This one was not the same as the one he had broken into the night previously, though. While that had had the hum-drum air of administrative offices, this one had a distinct air of round-the-clock activity and an intangible aura of cleanliness. Darien grimaced. What was it Hobbes had once said? "Cleanliness is a sure sign of hinkiness." He snorted, thinking he was learning just how true that Hobbesism was.

Breathing deep and low, he picked up his backpack and let the Quicksilver coat his rangy frame. Then he exited his car and followed a white-coated worker into the building. Navigating through the lobby on the heels of some random workers, he made his way to the basement, figuring that was where his buried treasure was most likely to be located. Sure enough, there at the end of the hall was a sign proclaiming his destination: The FBI Forensic Evidence Storage Facility.

He stood behind the security camera pointed at the door, stopped the flow and returned to visibility. Pulling a camera from his backpack, he taped a few seconds of nothingness at the door, then bypassed the normal hall camera by daisy-chaining the feed through his camera suspended below it to broadcast that scene back to the security monitors.

Even with the added protection of the feedback loop, though, Darien knew he'd best make short work of picking the door's lock. There was simply no way of knowing who was likely to be roaming these halls this late at night. Judging from what he'd seen upstairs, the facility was a hive of activity 24/7 and the sooner he found what he was looking for, the better.

Once inside the room, he quickly began searching through the warren of storage boxes for one with his case number on it. Holding a Mag light in his mouth, he mumbled to himself as he moved from shelf to shelf: "3256 ... 5083 ... 6397 ... 6902 ... 7003 ... 7012 ...." He stopped, got down on the floor next to the bottom shelf where the box was located and picked up his chant again, " 7012-0256 .... 03267 .... 0471 ... damn." He stood, scooted over to the next rack of shelves and began digging in the boxes at the top. "0583 ... 0591 ... 0597-0135. Crap." He rolled his eyes, stooped and moved to the next shelf down. "OK. 7012-0597-0179 ... 0217 ... 0233 ... 0234 ... ah hah! 7012-0597-0235! I got you now, baby!"

Darien pulled the box from the shelf and set it on the floor. Kneeling, he removed his gloves and began pulling out its contents. "Let's see what ole Georgie left us ... yeach." Darien held up pictures of a corpse sprawled on the rocks below a picturesque lighthouse, bloated and decayed beyond recognition. "So how did they figure out that was you, George?" He pulled out a file folder housing what looked to be the results of the lab’s evaluation of the physical evidence.

Opening it, he paged through an assortment of test results and analyses that described in grizzly detail the nature of the stab wounds and the sort of weapon it would take to produce them. A set of dental x-rays told him how the pathologist had made his identification. Along with that, half a dozen printouts of things that looked like graphs, with assorted spiky squiggles along the bottom edge completed the file. Its thinness struck him. Had there really been so little physical evidence? "Serology? What the hell is that?" Darien muttered under his breath, eyeing the topmost sheet with its caption and tell-tale DNA banding patterns. He wondered if he dared take them back with him to the Agency to see what Claire would make of them. "Damn, I wish I hadn’t flunked out of high school chemistry," he muttered, flipping to the next page and turning it lengthwise to read the tiny type below each spike on the graph, recognizing the letters as chemical compounds, but unable to begin to make a guess about which ones. The only thing he remembered from his wasted semester in chemistry was that C meant carbon. Giving up at last, he tucked the papers and x-rays back in the file and tucked it under his arm, picking up the only other thing in the box: a sealed plastic bag containing a hunter green Izod polo shirt. There was a dark brown, crusty stain covering the upper left chest and shoulder. "OK, I'm thinking I'm not going to be Xeroxing you, my friend," he said to the shirt. Pulling a Swiss Army knife out, he held the shirt up, apologized to it, and cut a sizeable swatch from the stained part. He put the swatch and a couple of random test results into his backpack, then put on his gloves again, refilled the box and placed it back in its proper spot.

Quicksilvering once again, he exited the room, restored the security camera, and headed home.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Claire was humming happily to herself as she flitted among the shipping boxes filling the Keep when Darien walked in. "Whoa, Keepy, looks like Santa paid somebody an early visit. So tell me, did you get all this for being naughty or nice?"

Claire grinned impishly at him. "You'll never know. Seriously, though, now that the Counteragent budget money has freed up, I've been able to procure the necessary equipment I've been wanting for some of my other lines of research."

"Wow, that's nice." Darien put one of the two coffee containers he held down on the counter and began to hand the second to Claire, then suddenly froze. "Hey, wait a minute -- the deal was that that money is supposed to fund gland-removal research."

"And it is, Darien, but there are some other avenues of research that I've been interested in exploring when I'm not working on gland removal ...." Claire looked at the proffered cup. "What do you want?"

Darien ignored the question. "Not working on gland removal? What do you mean not working on gland removal? That's why I brought you back, remember? To get the gland out of my head -- I haven't forgotten and neither should you. That needs to be your primary line of research ...."

Claire rolled her eyes, accepted the cup and began sipping at the hot beverage. "Ah hah, Prima Donna Syndrome. Must be a side effect of Arnaud's gene therapy. I really should have seen it coming based on the psych workup in your file ...."

"Alright, Keep, alright. Point taken. I'll always be a lab rat to you."

"Oh, come on, what's the matter that you can't take a little ribbing? And don't worry, I'm still researching gland-removal methods, but even I can't spend all my time on it. A mind needs to have varied input the way a muscle does or you don't maximize strength and flexibility -- or in this case, intelligence," Claire pointed out archly.

"What, so you're telling me that working on a cure for cancer will make you smarter?" Darien asked, eying her with a mixture of skepticism and suspicion.

"Yes, actually, that's exactly what I'm telling you, Darien," Claire eyed him back with a slight smile. A warning bell went off in Darien's head and he knew he was about to be bombarded with medical minutiae that would likely make his head spin.

"Some of the most important breakthroughs in science have come from collateral research. For example, I've been following the work of Dr. Young and his study of tumor propagation. Did you know that he started off by researching whether it was possible to create an artificial form of human blood plasma and discovered in the process that there seem to be hormones that stimulate blood vessel growth? He remembered that when he later began doing cancer research and theorized that perhaps tumors secreted a similar hormone, attracting rapid blood vessel growth to supply the tumor's nutrient demands ...."

"Yeah, yeah, that's great, Claire, very interesting, really. But listen, right now I need you to do a little off-the-clock research for me," Darien interrupted impatiently.

"Oh, bloody hell! I knew there had to be a reason for  **this** ," she held up her coffee. "Why does it always have to be  _quid pro quo_  with you, Darien?"

"What? What? The coffee? You got it all wrong --  **this** ," Darien held up his own coffee cup and tapped it lightly against Claire's, "is just a simple cup of joe between friends." Darien pulled the scrap of bloody fabric and the FBI test results from his jacket pocket. "Just like this is a simple li'l blood test between friends. Oh and while you're at it, could you please tell me what the hell those papers mean?"

"This wouldn't have anything to do with that case of Bobby's you're not supposed to be investigating, would it?"

"How the heck did you find out about ...? Eberts. What? Do you two have a gossip fest like two old hens over lunch every day?"

"Albert and I exchange information on a regular basis, yes. We both like to keep abreast of what's happening with our Agency colleagues."

"Ah ha. I see. So that means I don't have to fill you in on the whole Pappadamos thing, then."

"No. But Albert also told me that he had alerted you yesterday that The Official wanted you off this case." Claire stared at Darien for a second, then sighed. "Which of course, only made you more determined ...."

"See, you know me so well ...."

"Yes, unfortunately I have come to be all too familiar with your twisted logic. What I don't know is just why you think I'm going to help you out this time."

"One word: biscotti."

Claire's eyes widened. "Biscotti?"

Darien nodded. "The chocolate-dipped kind. There's two of 'em in it for you if you can get me what I need by this afternoon."

"Hmmmm," Claire picked up the scrap and the test results, eying them critically. "I can't see me doing that for less than three: two chocolate dipped and one orange cranberry, if you please."

He laughed and nodded again. "My, my, aren't we the greedy little mad scienteest?"

Claire's grey eyes crinkled at the edges. "And you, sir, are an evil, evil man."

Darien shot her a parting grin. "Don't you forget it, sister."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Four

 

The dog and her human playmate were back in the front yard when Darien returned to the McEvy home. This time the child appeared to be trying to ride her friend like a horse but the dog insisted on rolling over every time the girl sat on its back. The two came rolling down the yard as Darien came up the path. The dog stopped mid-roll, noted his approach, and ran up to him, flopping over in front of him once again. Darien chuckled softly and bent to rub the dog's tummy. "Demanding little pup, ain't ya?" he murmured.

The girl watched him from the grass with wide eyes that glittered like jet in her deeply tanned face. In fact, the child was brown as a nut with the only hint of red showing right over the bridge of her nose. "Hey there," Darien called to her, "you're Rikki, right?"

She flipped her jumble of black hair over her shoulders and announced, "I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

Darien nodded. "Ah, yah, that's good. But hey, your dog knows me, right?" He gave the dogs tummy three firm pats for emphasis. "And you saw me with your mom the other day. So that makes me not a stranger, right?"

"I guess so." She stood, straightened her grass-stained cotton sundress, and walked over to him. She daintily put out her hand, as if meeting the queen, "My name is Rikki."

Darien grinned and lightly shook her hand. "Mine is Darien."

"Da ... Dar ...." He rolled his eyes as she tried to work her child's mouth around his name.

"You know what, Rikki? Why don't you just call me Fawkes?"

Just then Irene came through the front door. "Rikki, where are you?" She spotted the girl and called, "Didn't I tell you to stay in the atrium? Louisa has your lunch ready."

The little girl grabbed Darien by the hand and towed him up the path to where her mother stood. "Mommy, mommy, your friend, Fox, came to see us and he wants to have lunch too!" She turned back to Darien and whispered up at him, "We're having macaroni and cheese!"

Darien leaned down to the girl, "I tell you what: why don't you and your pup go have lunch while I talk to your mommy for a minute, OK?"

The girl gave him a very adult look, quirking her lips as if debating something. "Well, OK, then. But it's the dinosaur kind. You really should try it."

Darien laughed. This child had an impish charm that he found irresistible. It was a good thing she was almost 30 years his junior. If she had been a grown-up, he'd have been in serious trouble. "Next time, OK? It'll be a date."

"OK," she agreed, then took off at full speed for the kitchen with the dog galloping after.

Darien stood and turned to Irene. After the warmth of the child's eyes, he felt a definite chill coming from the woman. "Ah, Mrs. McEvy, sorry to bother you again ...."

"Then why do it? I thought we were done, Agent Fawkes. I have nothing more to say to you and I don't like you hanging around my daughter." She tried to rush him out of the foyer by his elbow, but he stood his ground.

"Yeah, well, I don't like it when people lie to me. Why didn't you tell me that you and George were involved?"

She set her lips in a definite line and looked him square in the eye. "We weren't."

"Bull," he said, "listen, lady, you're good, there's no doubt about that. I guess you'd have to be pretty good at lying to be a successful politician. But I've spoken with George's mother ...."

"Please, that woman's the liar. According to her I'm the anti-Christ ...."

"I don't know what you are, but I do know that little girl of yours is not your husband's. Remember, I've seen pictures of George -- you'd have to be blind not to notice the resemblance. What happened? Your husband figured out you were two-timing him and decided to get even?"

"My husband had no idea," Irene began, then threw her hand across her mouth as she realized what she'd said.

"Ah hah. That's what I thought. So why don't you tell me what really happened?" Darien leaned against the wall and crossed his arms and legs expectantly.

Irene looked over into the living room at her wedding picture, her jaw working but no sounds emanating from her mouth. Finally she turned to Darien and began in a hush, "I wanted a family and after years of trying it was clear my husband couldn’t give me one. Stephen refused to go to a fertility specialist because it wasn't 'manly.' Do you have any idea of what it's like to want a child so desperately and not be able to have one?"

Darien thought about how many times his hopes for having the gland removed had been raised, then dashed. "No, but I do know what it's like to want something and know you may never be able to have it in your lifetime."

Irene looked him in the eye again, but this time hers were soft, searching. "So you understand true desperation," she whispered. "I wasn't in love with George and he knew it. But I  **was**  fond of him. He was a good man but innocent, a real idealist in the way that only someone young can be. I think he fell a little bit in love with me because of the opportunity I gave him, the entrée into the political life he longed for. I was flattered -- he was a good-looking young man, what woman wouldn't have been? And with Stephen here while George and I were in D.C. ... well, one thing led to another ....." She brushed her hair back with one hand and put the other on her hip. "Anyway, when I became pregnant with Rikki, Stephen never asked how or why. It was almost as if he was relieved."

"And what did George have to say? I can't imagine he was too pleased that you were planning on passing off his child as your husband's."

"George never knew. I never had the chance to tell him. I didn't realize I was pregnant until after we'd come home that Memorial Day weekend." She sighed, half-turned from Darien and stared down at the floor. "Look, the truth is I don't know what happened to George. I left all that behind five years ago. Since then my only concern has been keeping my family safe. Surely you can understand that."

"What? Did someone threaten to kill you or your daughter?"

"There are worse things than death, Agent Fawkes. Like being separated from your family forever. My daughter and my husband are everything to me -- I won't risk losing them," the Senator's public mask came down, leaving no trace of the woman Darien had just seen. "This interview is over."

Darien was undaunted by her change in demeanor. He set his jaw and looked her square in the eye. "Ah, no, ma'am, it's not. I'm sorry, but I need the truth. Look, I don't want to get you in trouble, but you're a smart lady. You know that as long as you're hiding something, you and your family are in danger. It doesn't matter whether you tell me or not. Do you think the people that threatened you are gonna care? The only way for you to be sure that you and your family stay safe is to come clean so we can put those bastards away." Darien put a hand on Irene's shoulder. "You just said the worst thing that could happen to you would be to be separated from your family. Well, there's a blind old lady who was separated from her son five years ago. If that was you, wouldn't you want somebody to pay?"

The ex-senator gave a sigh that sounded somewhere between frustration and resignation. "There were rumors, alright, but they were  **just**  rumors. George suspected that Senator Harkin received overly generous contributions from some of the nation's largest defense contractors, like Lawrence Livermore and Lockheed Martin. These were the same companies who were being paid top dollar for some ... well, shall we say questionable technology on the Korean black market. And that kind of allegation would have been extremely problematic for a potential presidential candidate. Now, George couldn’t prove anything but he did make an awful lot of noise when it appeared that Harkin was intent on quashing a bill that would have prevented such sales. I tried to warn him that he needed to be careful, that he was just an aide and Harkin was a dangerous enemy for someone who had a bright political future ahead of him to make. But George, he was so naïve, so intent on doing the 'right thing,' that he just wouldn't listen."

"So you think Harkin had a hand in George's demise?"

"I don't know, Agent Fawkes. I truly don't. But I do think it odd that a man who'd been the frontrunner as the next presidential candidate would suddenly turn his back on politics just days before our subcommittee's report was published. That should have been his day in the sun, a stepping stone to the White House. Instead he went back to Oklahoma with his tail between his legs and Senator Lee of Hawaii replaced him as head of the subcommittee. It was all very troubling."

"You know what, Mrs. McEvy? It still is."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien walked to his car with his brows knit, jingling his keys absently as he went. Bobby had definitely had the right idea when he filed this case under 'Big Frickin' Mess." The more he discovered, the more he became convinced that's exactly what this was. No wonder Bobby had laughed at him when he'd said this case was dead. He couldn't have been more wrong.

Still wrapped in his reverie, Darien didn't look up until a cream-clad arm shot out and grabbed his hand as he reached for the driver's side door. Darien was so shocked by the movement that he almost lost control and just barely managed to squelch the familiar tingling at the back of his neck. Calming himself, he turned his head to address three familiar looking men all dressed in matching off-white suits. "Ah, yah, I'd like two Fudgesicles and a Nutty Buddy, please," he deadpanned. "Hey, maybe one of those red, white and blue Firecracker Pops, too. They're so patriotic, don't you think?" Darien fished in his pants pocket as if looking for change.

"Very amusing, Agent Fawkes," the head representative for the Agency of Sequestered Seclusion sounded anything but amused. "Unfortunately that sense of humor won't help you if you insist on pursuing this matter further. We thought we'd made it clear to your superior that you were to halt your investigation immediately."

Darien bit his lip and squinted. "Hey, what can I say? I've always had a problem with authority."

"See, from our point of view,  **you**  are the problem," the man and his two silent companions moved closer to Darien in lock step. "This is your  **last**  warning: drop this case or suffer the consequences."

"Ooh, I'm scared," Darien smirked. "Please, I've seen your consequences before, remember? And frankly, they didn't impress me. I got out once; I can do it again if I have to."

"Oh, we're not going to extend you the courtesy of offering you accommodations at our facility again, Agent Fawkes. To be blunt, we don't need your kind of element bringing down the neighborhood. Our solution this time will be much more ... 'permanent.'" With that the three men stepped away, leaving Darien to contemplate the implication inherent in their visit.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien cruised down the Agency's halls, half-surprised to find himself all the way to the office he shared with Bobby and still unaccosted by Eberts. Barging through the door, he launched into the conversation he'd already been having in his head with his partner and mentor. "Bobby, you are  **not**  going to believe who just paid me a visit!" He didn't wait for a reply. "The men in the cream suits, that's who."

"You mean the psych ward finally decided to come after you?" Bobby sat behind his desk, calmly alternating between sorting through papers and typing into his computer.

"No, man, The Agency of Sequestered Seclusion. I said cream suits, not white."

"Well, cream is kinda white ...."

"Cream is  **not**  white; it's off-white. There's a difference."

"Not much."

"Enough."

"Says you."

"No, I meant 'enough already.' You're missing the point."

"No, I'm not."

"Yeah, you are. I just told you A.S.S. came after me and told me to stop the Pappadamos investigation!"

"They did, huh? That's interesting." Bobby pulled another paper from his desk and turned back to his computer screen.

Darien's face fell at Bobby's nonchalance. "What? You're not surprised?"

Bobby stopped typing and toyed with a paper clip in his mouth. "Oh, no," he drawled, "I'm surprised ... surprised it's taken you this long to get to here."

"Excuse me?" A red flush crept up Darien's neck and face as disappointment, frustration and embarrassment warred with each other. "Hey, at least I got here. And it's a hell of a lot more than interesting there, buddy. You and Jonesy never even made it this far."

Bobby replaced the paper clip in his mouth and started typing again. "That's right, Fawkes,  **Jones**  and me never did ...."

Darien stared at his partner for a few moments, mouth agape, then left the office in silence and headed for the Keep. Maybe Claire would be sufficiently impressed by his latest discovery.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Hey, Claire, guess what? I just had a run-in with A.S.S.!"

"I'm not surprised."

For the second time in a row, Darien's face fell in disappointment. "What is it with you people around here? Can't a guy enjoy a stunning discovery every once in a while?"

Claire clucked her tongue at him. "Poor baby. I'm sorry, but I have a stunning discovery of my own to tell you about."

"Oh really?" Darien popped onto his former administering chair and settled in. "Whatcha got for me?"

"George's blood is, well, George's blood."

"OK, Claire, I gotta tell you: as stunning discoveries go, that one pretty well sucks."

"No, Darien, no," Claire turned in her chair and tapped her file on her desk. "It  **is**  George's blood, but it couldn't have come from the body they found. The blood on the shirt had to have come from a living person."

Darien scratched his chin. "Wait a minute, you're telling me that our victim wasn't a victim?"

"Well, yes. According to my test results, the blood sample taken from George's shirt contained traces of a common anti-coagulant, a chemical compound used to keep whole blood from clotting. The only reason such a compound would be present is if the blood was taken from a live donor ...."

"Huh?"

Claire got up, grabbed Darien's hand and held out his index finger. "Oh, look. You cut your finger and what happens? It bleeds for a bit and then stops, right? That's because whole, untreated blood contains protein compounds that cause it to form fibrous clots when it hits the air. It's the body's defense against bleeding to death from a paper cut." Claire released Darien and walked over to her desk, picking up her file. "But  **this**  blood had a chemical added to it to prevent it from clotting -- which in and of itself isn't all that unusual. It's fairly standard when you want to collect and store whole blood samples. For example the Red Cross uses it when collecting donations for the blood bank ...."

Darien stood and went to look at the file over her shoulder. "So people who give blood would have this in their, uhm, donations?"

"Right. See, not so unusual." Claire turned to face him. "What  **is**  unusual is that this compound was found in the blood sample of an alleged murder victim. And what's even more unusual is that the FBI lab didn't catch it."

"So what? You're saying that the FBI test lab screwed up so badly that they couldn't even tell the victim's blood had to come from a live person?"

"I'd say that's highly unlikely, at best." Claire shifted on her feet and leaned her hip against the edge of her desk.

"Or on purpose. And both Jonesey and Hobbes signed off on the lab's findings as the investigating agents. Now I can believe Jonesy missing something that critical, but Hobbes? Uh, uh, no way our little tiger would let that one slip by."

"So you're saying Bobby knowingly signed off on falsified evidence?" Claire bit her lip and frowned. "That sounds even less likely. I mean, what could possibly induce him to do such a thing?"

Darien took the file from Claire's hands and let out a deep breath as his brows knitted. "I don't know, but I'm damn sure gonna find out."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien stormed into the office and slammed the file onto Bobby's desktop. "Alright, why don't you tell me what the  **hell**  is going on?"

Hobbes simply looked up at Darien from behind his desk and asked mildly, "Why don't you tell me, partner?"

"I've got evidence here," Darien waved the file at Hobbes, "that the murder wasn't a murder, that George wasn't even a victim, that  **you**  overlooked false evidence  **knowingly**  ...." He swallowed and looked into his partner's eyes. "please, give me something here so I can understand how you could ...."

"You've taken the first step, Fawkes. You've gathered your evidence. Now take that evidence and put it all together. See, as a thief, you were trained to observe your surroundings and work with what you saw. Now you've got to look  **beyond**  it. Then tell me what you see." Bobby leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms behind his head and simply waited.

Darien's mind whirled as he looked at his partner, a man he knew would never knowingly allow a murder to go unsolved. Except that Claire had just told him that George couldn't have been dead when the blood was taken. And The Community had just tried to dam his investigation into George's supposed death. Taken together, those two facts could only add up to one conclusion: George was now a member of the government's super-secret enclave for agents and other personnel who needed to "disappear" for safety or political reasons. "George isn't dead," Darien said slowly, "he's stashed at The Community. The body at the crime scene was a plant -- just like we used to fake your death that time the Chinese were after you."

Encouraged by Bobby's emerging smile, Darien began hypothesizing out loud, "And if The Community's involved, that means someone pretty high up in the government wanted him kept quiet, but not badly enough to want him dead.

"McEvy? Nah, she wouldn't have done it. Sure it was easier for her not to have him around when Rikki was born, but she wouldn't have had the heart to do that to him. Besides, she didn't have enough pull." Darien started pacing as he spoke, moving like a caged animal from one side of the small room to the other. "But if not, McEvy, who?

"Harkin," Darien turned expecting to be greeted by a triumphant smile from Hobbes but instead was shocked to find a frown marring his partner's handsome features. "It had to be Harkin. He had motive: George knew he was taking bribes from defense contractors. Allegations like that would have spelled the end of his political career. And he had the power to get George sentenced to The Community. It had to be him, Bobby."

The older man shook his head. "Think, Fawkes, think! If Harkin was behind George's disappearance, why bother with The Community? Why not just kill the guy and be done with it? George was much more dangerous to him alive than dead ...."

"And Harkin's political career was pretty much washed up abruptly too." Darien instinctively picked up Hobbes' train of thought. "So it wasn't Harkin directly. But he had to have been involved. There's no other reason for someone to want George to disappear. It had to have been to make sure he kept his mouth shut about Harkin. And whoever had the power to do that, also had to have had the power to make sure that Harkin left office and never returned. Someone who had even more to lose than Harkin if the truth ever came out about his bribes." Darien stopped and turned to his partner again. "It was a  **deal** , wasn't it?"

"What do you mean, Fawkes?" Bobby asked cautiously.

"I mean that somebody high up, maybe even the President himself, made a deal with Harkin: he steps down and George gets a lifetime lease on a retirement suite at The Community. Problem solved and the public never needs to know about the snake the government put in charge of its anti-nuke protection program. Everybody goes home a winner -- except George, that is." Darien grimaced as if he'd swallowed something foul. "And you  **knew**!" Darien put both hands on Hobbes's desk, leaning down to look his partner in the eyes. "And you  **let**  them get away with it?"

"Not at first."

"Not at  **first**? What the hell does  **that**  mean?"

"It means I didn't know about the deal at first. I really thought George had been murdered. But the more I looked into it, the more I knew something was wrong. But every time I had enough facts pulled together to share a theory with Jones, things suddenly got turned on their heads. Crime scene photos I knew I'd pulled went missing. Evidence I'd tagged suddenly disappeared. People who'd told me things suddenly recanted. I thought maybe I'd lost it there for a while.

"And then I realized it wasn't me screwing up; it was  **Jones**  screwing the pooch on me." Bobby sighed and ran a hand across his head. "My  **partner**  was tampering with the evidence, trying to throw me off at every turn. So I did the only thing I could do. I kept my mouth shut and kept on investigating. When I had enough evidence to make a solid case against Harkin  **and**  Jones, I went to our boss and told him what I'd found. That's when I learned what had really happened. That a deal had been made to oust Harkin and keep George quiet to spare the administration any embarrassment. And that Jones had been  **ordered**  to sabotage my investigation in the hopes I'd just quit it and move on to the next one.

"That was the end of my partnership with that bastard -- the last case we worked on together. I had to sign off on it as unsolved and file it under the BFM heading, even though I knew what had happened and Jones knew I knew. I couldn't trust him -- no way was I going to work with him again. And he told everyone that  **he**  had been the one who asked to be reassigned, that my inability to crack this case had caused me to crack ...."

Darien dropped into the seat in front of Bobby's desk. "But why, Bobby? You knew the truth. Why didn't you just go public?"

"Because Fawkes, sometimes the best thing an agent can know is when to shut up. Which is a lesson Georgie Porgie here never learned. Yeah, I coulda kept protesting and making people uncomfortable. But what woulda happened? I woulda wound up just like George or worse. And you woulda wound up dead a half dozen times over 'cuz I wouldn'ta been there to save your sorry butt." Bobby looked at Darien hard in the eyes. "Nah, there wasn't nothing I could do. I mean, Harkin was already getting the axe behind the scenes. McEvy was having a baby. And George was stashed in The Community, though I didn't know specifically it was The Community then. I didn't figure that part out till a while back when A.S.S. tried to make you and me permanent residents." Bobby sighed and sat back down. "But don't imagine the thought of that boy's mother hasn't kept me up at night. Yeah, Bobby Hobbes did what he had to do, but he sure as hell didn't like it. I just hope you never have to make that choice, my friend."

"What choice?"

"The choice between duty and the truth. Because it is  **not**  an easy one. And you can lose yourself in making it." He fished in his inside jacket pocket for a moment, then began patting himself down.

"Is that what happened to you?" Darien picked up a pill bottle from Bobby's desk and shook it. "Is that why you started with these?" His voice was low, barely above a whisper but held the sharp edge of anger behind its velvet tone. "Because of the  **twit**?"

Bobby snatched the bottle from Darien's hand and shook out two pills while shaking his head. "Nah, nah, Fawkes. It wasn't like that." He popped the pills in his mouth and swallowed without benefit of water. "My little ... uh, idiosyncrasies started  **way**  before then. 'Sides, it'd take a hell of a lot more than some back-stabbing shenanigans by  **Jonesy**  to crack Bobby Hobbes. I'm way more twisted than that ...." He quieted suddenly and just stood scratching with his index finger over his left eyebrow.

Darien looked at his partner, trying to imagine what someone like Bobby must have felt about Jones's betrayal. Sure, Darien had been double-crossed by people he trusted -- like when that bastard Manny Merrick had lifted his prints and framed him for a crime Merrick himself had committed -- but he had been a thief and so he had expected to be betrayed. But Bobby? He was too much of a stand-up guy to have ever imagined that his  **partner**  could have stabbed him in the back. A betrayal of that magnitude must have turned his world view on its ear.

"Fawkes, what the  **hell**  are you staring at?" Bobby shifted from side to side, then suddenly sat down as if to put himself under Darien's radar-like gaze.

"Oh, ah, nothin', Bobby, just thinkin'."

"Just thinkin', huh? Well, I guess there's a first time for everything." Bobby looked up at Darien, a slow grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "So, whatcha thinkin' 'bout?"

"Oh, I don't know," Darien lilted. "Maybe about the best agent I've ever known and the most important lesson he ever taught me." He sat down across the desk and locked eyes with the older man.

Bobby tilted his head and turned the intensity of his gaze up a notch. "And what would that be?"

"Darien Fawkes doesn't bail on his partner." He put his hand out for a low-five. "And you can take that to the bank, my friend."

Bobby's grin turned into a full-fledged smile as he slapped Darien's outstretched palm. "Glad to hear it, partner. Glad to hear it."

Darien slid back into his chair, frowned and proceeded to chew on the end of his thumb.

After a few moments of shuffling the paper on his desk, Bobby broke the silence. "You know you can't tell her."

Darien looked up startled. "Tell who what?"

"George's mother. You can't tell her what really happened to him. You know that, so why are you even thinking about it?"

Darien focused his attention on the end of the thumb he'd been chewing. "I'm not." He scratched at an ear, then his chin, then his nose. "But why not? I mean, I wouldn't have to tell her everything. Just let her know that he's OK -- so she wouldn't have to worry any more, you know?"

"Yeah, right. You give that dame a smoking gun and she's gonna shoot everyone in sight with it. Fawkes, she's just spent the last five years telling anybody who'd listen that her son wasn't dead  **without**  any proof. You let her know she's right and there'd be no stopping her ...."

"Would that be such a bad thing?"

"Yes, yes, it would be bad."

"For the government."

"For  **George**. Look he's alive right now. And still breathing. There's a lot to be said for that. Granted, he's stuck in The Community for the rest of his life, but that's a whole lot better than being six feet under. And that's where he's gonna end up if his mother starts raising a ruckus again. Trust me, my friend, the best thing you can do for George is to keep your mouth  **shut**." Darien sat for a moment, then leaned forward and opened his mouth to speak. Hobbes held up a hand to stop him. "You  **know**  I'm right."

The younger man sank back in his chair. "Yeah, I know." Bobby returned to shuffling papers and Darien picked up gnawing on his thumb again. "Bobby? Does it ever get any easier?"

"No, Fawkes, it doesn't. And like one of my shrinks once told me: if it does, then you know it's time to get out."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag

 

Darien sat on his sofa, lips moving as he studied a book open in his lap. Never lifting his eyes from the page, he reached blindly for his beer amid stacks of thick textbooks piled haphazardly on his coffee table. A loud knock on the door disturbed the calm of the apartment, but Darien barely seemed to notice. Without looking up, he mumbled loudly, "Come in."

Hobbes burst through the door, a jumble of frenetic motion. "Hey, partner," he called, stopping by the pool table and hitching up his pants, "Haven't heard from you in a couple of days so I just thought I'd stop by and see how it's going. Another scintillating weekend, I see."

"Oh, hey, Hobbesy," Darien finally looked up and shook his head as if to clear his vision. "Sorry I haven't called, but I been, ah, y'know," Darien ducked his head sheepishly towards the books on the coffee table, "uhm, studyin'."

"Studying, huh?" Bobby walked over to the coffee table and began inspecting the books piled there. At Bobby's approach, Darien quickly shut the book in his lap and tried to stash it under one of the sofa cushions. Hobbes immediately zeroed in on the movement and asked, "Whaddya got there?"

"Oh, it's, ah, nothing, just, ah, just one of those standard agent training textbooks. I, uh, borrowed a couple from Eberts. You know, like political science, world economics, Machiavelli's 'The Prince,'" Darien sighed, "You know, 'a good agent is an expert in many areas; his mind is his strongest weapon,' I think I heard somewhere."

"Oh, you heard that somewhere, did you? Well, whoever said it sounds like a very wise man to me," Bobby grinned over at Darien. "So tell me, oh seeker of knowledge, how are you doing?"

Darien moved his gaze from Bobby to look out the window. "Fine."

"Fine?  You're doing fine?"  Bobby walked around the couch and stood directly in Darien's line of sight.

"Yeah," Darien replied his voice trailing on an upward note.

"Yeah?"  Bobby leaned forward and looked Darien straight in the eye, switching his gaze first from one of Darien's baby brown's to the other. "So no trouble whatsoever?"

"Nope," Darien bit off in a quick syllable.

With a tired sigh, Bobby shook his head, "OK, 'fess up, Fawkesy, what's the problem?"

"Whaddaya mean, I just told you there's no problem."

"Yeah, I know what you told me, but those one word answers of yours are telling me something else," Bobby reached out his hand to snatch the book that the younger man had been trying to hide.

Darien fought briefly for the book, then threw his hands up in the air. "Alright, alright, if you must know, I'm studying CTS."

" **Studying**  CTS?" Hobbes looked at Darien incredulously for a second, then rolled his eyes and deadpanned, "'Course I'm not really surprised. After all, I have seen you trying to put the moves on chicks when we go out drinking."

"Oh, great. That's just great. I'm studying a required course here and you use it as the punch line to a joke. Thanks a lot, partner," Darien stared at Hobbes from soulful eyes under raised brows. "Way to give constructive criticism."

Bobby sat on the arm of the couch and put his arm consolingly around the younger man. "Never fear, my friend. It's all good, 'cuz you know what? You got one of the foremost authorities on CTS sittin' right here next to you."

Darien looked around his apartment searchingly, "Who?"

"Me," Bobby replied with a twinge of annoyance in his voice

"I don't know, Bobby...."

"C'mon, Fawkesy, am I not your mentor in all things spook? Have I not taken you into the bosom of my knowledge before?"

"Yeah, but this, this is different."

"N'ah, you'll see, one evening of Bobby Hobbes' personal instruction and you'll be slaying those agent chiquitas. Now c'mon, shove over and we'll do some role playing." Bobby shouldered Darien over and plopped down on the couch right next to him, both men's knees touching. Twisting a bit in his seat to face the taller man more fully, he leaned in close. In a deep, smooth, hushed tone, he suggested, "Ok, now you're the girl and I'm the agent. Listen and learn, my friend..."

Darien stared back at him unhappily. "You know, Hobbesy, I never thought I'd say this, but I miss Monroe."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_According to the Dalai Lama, the path to enlightenment is a simple one. The key, he tells us, is to take refuge in the Three Jewels of Buddhism. You know, when I was thief, I thought riches, not wisdom, came in the form of jewels ... or money ... or bearer bonds. But there's an ancient Chinese proverb that says: "Learning is a treasure which accompanies its owner everywhere." And if that enlightened Buddha Bobby Hobbes has his way, I'm gonna be one of the wealthiest dudes in the world._

 

 

End


	2. Catch as Catch Can (season 3 episode 2)

 

Episode Two

**Catch as Catch Can**

 

 

by liz_Z and iwomans_sister

Special thanks to AXZ for inspiring the tag scene, and to liz_Z's mother for helping with the editing process.

 

Teaser

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Ben Aaronovitch, one of the men who breathed life into the great Doctor Who, once said, "Every great decision creates ripples--like a huge boulder dropped in a lake. The ripples merge, rebound off the banks in unforeseeable ways. The heavier the decision, the larger the waves, the more uncertain the consequences."_

_Now, if my life isn't a prime example of this, then I don't know what is. A couple of years back I chose the wrong house to break into, and as a result I ended up getting a Quicksilver gland implanted in my brain. If those ripples haven't bounced off in unexpected ways, then I'm the Easter Bunny._

_One of the people that seem to take the most pleasure from disrupting my life is Arnaud De Föhn. He pops up from time to time, throws some stones in the lake that is my life, and laughs as he watches the ripples that occur. But, every once in a while, I've been able to return the favor._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Deep in the bowels of the Agency, in an under-lit, overly air-conditioned room, Darien sat in front of an antiquated computer and frantically typed away at the keyboard. As part of his training program for the agent-training practical exams, Hobbes had pitted him against Eberts in a battle of the hackers. Darien was supposed to be hacking into Eberts' computer, which he would then attempt to shut down. Instead, he was having a panic attack.

"There is no way I'm gonna be able to do this, Hobbes," Darien said, shaking his head as his fingers flew over the keys.

Bobby Hobbes, who stood at Darien's shoulder to supervise his progress and cheer him on, placed a hand on Darien's shoulder and reassured him, "You can do it, Fawkes. Just pay attention and use what you've learned."

Darien continued to shake his head, a grim expression on his face. "You have gotta be freakin' kidding me. I'm no computer genius -- hell, I'm barely computer literate. There's no way I'll be able to beat Eberts. Just trying to get past the damn firewalls he's put up is a freakin' nightmare!"

"It's supposed to be. If just anyone could break in, Arnaud wouldn'ta been the first guy to hack into the Agency computer network. You're doin' great, partner. A little more practice and you could be a first-class computer geek."

Darien most definitely did not want to become a first-class computer geek, but he kept his mouth shut and his eyes focused on the computer monitor. He was about to reach a critical stage of the hacking phase, and he needed all his attention focused in case Eberts pulled any tricks on him. Darien might have the advantage when it came to fist fighting, as he had proven numerous times in the sparring matches Hobbes had set up between the two trainees over the past several weeks, but when it came to hacking, Eberts was the king and Darien was loathe to step into his territory.

And then Darien didn't have time to think about his opinions anymore. He had just finished hacking his way through the firewalls; now the real challenge had begun. He was supposed to take down Eberts.

Sweat appeared on Darien's brow as he began his campaign to bypass Eberts and hack into the mainframe. Getting past the firewalls had seemed difficult at the time, but going toe-to-toe with Eberts made it look like child's play. And as time went by it became painfully obvious that this was a battle that Darien would be unable to win. Eberts came up with the perfect counter-command for every new tactic Darien attempted and eventually began using offensive tactics of his own, which made it even more difficult for Darien as he struggled to attack and defend at the same time.

Which was why Darien was shocked when all resistance from Eberts abruptly stopped. He faltered for a moment, unsure of what to do, and then continued with the hacking. He obtained control of Eberts' computer in a matter of seconds. Barely able to believe this turn of events, Darien began to type in the string of commands that would shut Eberts' machine down.

"I'm doing it Hobbes! I'm getting in! I can't believe it!"

Eberts streaked past the hall door. Hobbes reached out and grabbed him, as Darien continued to type away with triumph in his eyes.

"Believe it," Hobbes replied dryly.

Eberts realized that Darien was on the verge of succeeding in the hack job to shut his computer down, and reached out frantically as Darien pattered out the final keystrokes.

"Wait! Stop! Don't shut it..." his face fell as Darien, still absorbed in his task, hit the enter key, "...down."

Hobbes turned to Eberts, reprimanding, "What're you doing? You're supposed to be duking it out with Fawkes right now."

Eberts, still slightly out of breath, said, "I discovered something and I felt it was imperative I inform the Official."

Darien looked severely disappointed. "Wait a minute. I'm trying to hack you, and you're doing something else at the same time?"

"It was a more efficient use of my time," Eberts replied stiffly. "Besides, getting a lead on Arnaud De Fohn's location supercedes these training exercises."

Darien continued blithely, "Because I really resent the fact that you.... That you're able to.... Wait. Hold the phone... did you just say what I think you just said?"

Eberts nodded. "I can assure you, I did."

Hobbes crossed his arms and glared at Eberts suspiciously. "Oh yeah? Where?"

Eberts placed his hands behind his back, like a young child reciting something to his teacher. "The last time Arnaud fled the Agency, I managed to trace the license plate of the taxi he used to escape."

Hobbes put up his index finger in mild protest, "Wait. I didn't ask how you found him. I asked you where."

Eberts continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "From there, he went to the San Diego Airport and from there took a plane to Brazil."

"Oh yeah, Ebes," Darien interjected sarcastically, "Brazil. That's real helpful."

Unfazed, Eberts continued, "I was unable to learn more at that point in time, but I set up a passive electronic surveillance net to inform me of the next time he resurfaced. And, according to the alert I received on my computer," he glanced at his watch, "four minutes and fifty-two seconds ago, he has recently made an appearance in Tijuana."

Darien frowned. "Whoa. Just over the border? That's close!"

Eberts nodded. "It seems to be a prime gunrunning location and an excellent place for smuggling illegal contraband of all sorts into the United States."

"Ya think?" Hobbes interjected sarcastically.

Eberts ignored the interruption, "Arnaud could be there for any number of reasons, many of which are illegal."

"I'm heading south, guys. Now," Darien said over his shoulder as he headed toward the door.

Hobbes reached out a hand and grabbed Darien by the collar. "Whoa, hold it there, partner. You're a government agent now -- you can't just go traipsing off on your own personal vendettas whenever you feel like. Particularly since you ain't even graduated yet."

"Not to mention that Fish and Game does not have jurisdiction in Mexico," Eberts added. "And I need to inform the Official. Now."

Darien whirled around and gave them both a disbelieving look. "This is Arnaud we're talking about. You think I give a crap about jurisdiction?"

Hobbes smirked. "Nah, but Daddy's little pencil pusher has a point. You might give a crap about the Official locking your ass up in the padded room for all eternity. Besides, I have a better idea."

Darien raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? And what, pray tell, is this brilliant scheme of yours, Mister P.T. Barnum?"

Hobbes released Darien's collar and cocked his head to the left, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "I think the three of us've been cooped up in here long enough. You can't learn all you need to be a good agent by veggin' out in front of a computer screen and readin' textbooks. I think you and Eberts could maybe use a little field experience, some hands-on training by yours truly. Maybe in, oh, say... Mexico?"

Darien grinned fiendishly. "Oh, I like it."

Eberts looked at the two older agents, an anxious expression on his face. "But what about the Official? I'm confident he would not approve such an action… particularly considering his reaction to your last 'real-life' training exercise, which was less than enthusiastic."

"OK, Ebes, this is Arnaud, remember? The guy that killed my brother... that impersonated you... that you let get away...."

"Yes, Darien, I am cognizant of the person in question, but the fact remains that...."

Darien held up a hand to stop the flow of words. "Ah, you know what, Eberts? Shut up." As they walked out the door, Eberts started to walk toward the Official's door, but both Darien grabbed his right arm, and Hobbes took up his left. They turned him around firmly and escorted him down the hall between them, as they began animatedly discussing travel possibilities.

Eberts shook his head in dismay. "Oh dear...."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

::Cue Theme Music::

There once was a tale about a guy who could turn invisible. I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me. OK, so here's how it works: There's this stuff called 'Quicksilver' that can bend light. My brother and some scientists made it into a synthetic gland, and that's where I came in. See, I was facing life in prison and they were looking for a human experiment. So we made a deal; they put the gland in my brain, and I walk free. The operation was a success... but that's when everything started to go wrong.

::Music Fade Out::

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act I

 

Hobbes walked into the Official's office, two large cups of coffee in hand. He placed one on the Official's desk and then took a seat, sipping from the other cup and looking over the rim at the Official silently.

The Official frowned as he looked at the steaming cup of coffee on his desk, then back up at Hobbes. "Alright, what are you up to?"

Hobbes stopped sipping his coffee and said in a business-like tone, "Sir, I was thinking: Fawkes and Eberts are making progress, but an old field expert like yourself knows there's no substitute for on-the-job experience, right? That's why I'd like to take them on a training recon to Mexico. Show 'em what it's like to blend in with the crowd, get the lay of the land in a foreign environment -- the kind of stuff you can't learn in books."

The Official gave Hobbes a suspicious look. "If you haven't noticed, this agency doesn't have the funds or the time to endorse expenses of that nature."

Hobbes sat back in his chair, thinking. "I could provide the funds, sir."

The Official snorted in disbelief. "You'd pay for the training exercise? You? You can barely pay your electric bill." He leaned forward, a harsh scowl crossing his face. "What are you up to?"

"Like I said, I think it would be good training and there might be a little fun time we could squeeze in, if you know what I mean," Hobbes replied with a wink.

The Official rolled his eyes. "Same old Hobbes."

"Is that a yes, sir?"

The Official thought for a moment and then nodded. "But just remember, don't spend the whole time slacking off. I expect to see some significant improvement when they return."

Hobbes grinned and snapped off a salute as he turned to the door, "I guarantee you'll be satisfied with the results, sir!"

The Official shot a parting remark at his back, "And next time you want to take the class on a field trip, just take them to the zoo."

"The kind of animals we're looking for you don't find in a zoo, chief," Hobbes commented, an enigmatic smile crossing his lips as he stepped out into the hall.

The Official started to stand, opened his mouth to speak, but Hobbes was gone. He turned his attention to the coffee cup on his desk. He picked it up gingerly, sniffed at it, and then took a small taste. He grimaced and put the cup back down. "Needs more sugar."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The sun was setting as Hobbes pulled Golda up to the Customs office that marked the border between California and Mexico. Darien stared out the window through his pair of FBI-edition sunglasses, the lone souvenir from his brief employment by the Bureau, and heaved a deep sigh. He hated car trips, especially when he had to make them in Hobbes' van. The fact that Hobbes and Eberts had bickered constantly the entire trip hadn't helped much, either.

Hobbes leaned out of the driver's side window as a Customs agent walked around the vehicle. The man frowned deeply, looking first at Hobbes, then at Darien and Eberts. He crossed his arms. "I need you to open the back of the vehicle, please."

"Not necessary, my friend," Hobbes pulled out his badge and flashed it at the Customs agent in the lightning-quick, practiced motion he used whenever he was hoping someone wouldn't notice the Fish and Game insignia. "We're federal agents."

The man's frown deepened, "Yeah well, so am I." He flipped Hobbes' badge open again and scrutinized it closely. "Right. Open up the back, Mr. Fish and Game."

Hobbes glanced over at Darien, silently begging him to intervene. Darien just smirked and placed his feet up on the dashboard, sticking a piece of gum in his mouth. He was in no mood to get involved, and besides, the customs agent wouldn't listen to him anyway. The worst thing that could happen would be if the man confiscated the bag of sour cream and onion potato chips Darien had stashed in his duffle bag.

Hobbes rolled his eyes in exasperation as it became clear that Darien was not going to protest the Customs agent's demands. He turned to Eberts, a disgusted expression on his face, and pulled his keys out of the ignition. "Unlock the back," he muttered irritably, holding the keys out for Eberts to take.

Eberts held up a hand and started to protest, but before he had the chance the Customs agent poked his head into the window of the van and shook his head. "Nope, I want you to do it," he said, waggling a finger at Hobbes.

Hobbes' eyes narrowed, but he climbed out of the van and walked around to the back door, reluctantly swinging it open. The Customs agent stared in surprise at the interior of the van, which not only had the three men's luggage

in it but a vast array of government-issued spy gadgets. A smile crept across his face, "Oh yeah. I haven't had this much fun in a long time..."

Hobbes gritted his teeth against the curse rising in his throat and stepped aside with exaggerated politeness, waving the Customs inspector towards the van's back doors. Then he walked over to the passenger window and glared at Darien. Darien winced at the expression on Hobbes' face. Apparently, Darien's assessment of the situation had been very, very wrong.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Several hours later, on the far side of the border, Darien climbed out of the van, slung his duffle over his shoulder and looked disgustedly at the singularly crappy motel from which Hobbes was currently procuring a room. It was painted a faded shade of yellow that was eerily reminiscent of the dead grass clumped here and there on the small strip of lawn in front of the motel office. The sign that displayed the hotel's name, both in Spanish and in badly spelled English, was aged and cracked. Most of the red roof tiles were chipped and others were missing. All in all... it was just what he had expected.

Hobbes stepped out of the motel office, jangling a tarnished set of keys. "I got us a room."

Darien frowned. "Who, whoa, whoa, a room? We need two rooms, not just one."

Hobbes gave Darien an irritated look. "I'm payin' for this out of my own pocket here. You want another room, you're gonna have to cough up the dough yourself."

Darien emitted a frustrated huff. "Cheapskate."

"Hey, I'm not real happy about this either. You know how loud you snore?"

Eberts clambered out of the van, struggling to maneuver a suitcase almost as big as he was. Hobbes looked over at the younger agent, shaking his head. "I told you to pack light."

Eberts gave Hobbes a puzzled look. "I did pack light."

Darien raised an eyebrow. "If that's packing light, I'd hate to see you pack for a longer trip..."

Hobbes walked over to the van, grabbed his small suitcase, and then began walking toward the motel. "C'mon, let's get this stuff up to the room." He led Darien and Eberts up a rickety set of stairs and then strolled along the walkway to room 235. After three attempts, he finally managed to unlock the door. He walked into the room, muttering something about cheap keys.

Darien followed Hobbes into the room, which to him felt remarkably like stepping into a cave. It was dark and dank, and didn't smell particularly pleasant either. Darien couldn't help but wonder if the maids had ever heard of air freshener, or even soap and water. He was willing to bet he would find cigarette burns on the bedclothes. And there were only two beds, which meant that someone was going to have to take the sleeping bag that Hobbes kept stashed somewhere in Golda's confines and sleep on the floor. What fun.

Eberts looked around, wrinkling his nose in distaste. He walked over to one of the beds, pulled off the top cover, and then heaved his gargantuan suitcase up onto the sheets. Darien walked over to Eberts and pulled himself to his full height. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Unpacking my things," Eberts said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Oh no you don't. The bed's mine." Darien gave Eberts a pointed look.

Eberts looked over at the other bed and started to pick up his suitcase again, but Hobbes promptly shook his head and crossed his arms. "You want this bed, you gotta get through me."

Eberts looked up at Darien, stoic but determined. "This is my bed."

Darien shook his head stubbornly. "Nope, you're the junior agent. You take the floor."

"Actually, I have worked for the government longer than you..."

"Well, you have the least field experience."

Eberts set his jaw stubbornly. "I am not sleeping on the floor."

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

Hobbes stepped between the two men and pushed them apart as if they were squabbling children. "Just take the floor, Eberts," he snapped crossly.

Darien smiled and lifted Eberts' suitcase, placing it on the ground and dropping his duffle bag on the bed. Then he turned to Hobbes, asking eagerly, "So, where are we heading tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow? Tomorrow we put Hobbes.net to work," Hobbes said. "First we gotta check in with my sources, figure out where all the action is. The gunrunners and terrorists have been rakin' in plenty of money without Arnaud, but I have the feeling Fearless Leader is tryin' to stick his fingers in the pie."

Darien cocked his head to the left. "So if Arnaud is Fearless Leader, does that make Huisclos and Doctor Rendell Boris and Natasha?" Hobbes considered this for a moment and then nodded. "And more to the point, does that make us Rocky and Bullwinkle?" Darien asked with a grin.

Hobbes gave Darien an amused look. "You are definitely Bullwinkle, my friend. That hair just screams antlers."

"Oh, I guess that means you wanna be Rocky. You've sure got the height thing down."

Eberts cleared his throat. "Well, if the two of you are Rocky and Bullwinkle, then who am I?"

Darien and Hobbes glanced at each other and grinned. Then they turned to Eberts and simultaneously announced, "Mister Peabody."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Eberts looked around the dark street. Lights from the nearby buildings cast pools of light into the puddles on the street from the recent rain. The air had a thick, oppressively hot texture courtesy of the latent moisture in the air, thick enough that if you opened your mouth you could taste it. It reminded him of the time the Agency's air conditioner had given out in the middle of a heat wave. He glanced over at Hobbes. "I don't know about this. It doesn't sound like a good idea."

"Hate to say it, but I hafta agree with Eberts here," Darien added. "Hobbes, do you even know where we're going?"

"Of course I know where we're going. Bobby Hobbes is always prepared, my friend." He straightened his tuxedo jacket and smiled. "I could get used to this."

Eberts, also clad in a tuxedo, straightened his bowtie and admired himself in the van's side-view mirror. "Yes Robert, I agree, this is very nice."

Darien looked at his reflection in the side-view mirror and grimaced, fiddling with his collar. "Do I really have to wear one of these things again?"

"Fawkesy, it's just a tux, it's not like you have to walk in here in a dress and a pink wig."

"I might as well," Darien replied.

Hobbes ran a hand across his face in vexation, "C'mon Fawkes, I didn't think I was gonna have to include fashion and deportment in your training. Eberts ain't complaining." Eberts smiled, pleased with Hobbes' comment. Darien just shook his head and muttered to himself.

Hobbes swaggered up to a dark, ghostly gray stucco building with broken roof tiles and cracked windows. He stopped in front of the door, which looked ready to fall off of its hinges, and knocked sharply. A few seconds later the door opened slightly and a hawk-nosed man peered suspiciously through the crack.

"Yeah, what is it? Who are you?" the man asked gruffly.

"Robert Hobbes and company."

"I don't know no one by that name," the man replied.

"Yeah, but your boss does. I'm sure good ol' Juan Salgado would be happy to see me. So be a good boy and go tell him Bobby Hobbes is here."

The man gave Hobbes an outraged stare, then closed the door. A few minutes passed and then the door opened again, all the way this time. The man motioned for them to enter, a resigned expression on his face. "Come on in, he's expecting you."

Eberts and Darien gave Hobbes a look of disbelief and then followed Hobbes inside. The hawk-nosed man led the three through a hall and past a series of doors; when he reached the one on the end he opened it. "Wait here, Salgado will be right with you."

They walked in and the door closed behind them. "So Hobbes," Darien started, "how do you know this Salgado guy?"

"I got him out of a jam a while back."

The door opened and a tall, handsome Hispanic man walked in. "Robert Hobbes. It's been a while."

"That it has." Hobbes said. The two men embraced and then Hobbes spoke up. "Juanito, I need a favor."

"Anything for you, my friend."

"I'm looking for a man named Arnaud De Föhn. He's a arms dealer. You heard of him?"

"De Föhn? No, mi amigo. I have not."

"C'mon, Juan. You owe me. This guy may also be going by Arnaud de Thiel. You tellin' me you don't know what's happening in your own backyard?"

Juan sighed, then walked over the desk and grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. Scribbling something on the paper, he handed it back to Hobbes. "You might want to try this address. The owner of the club was looking for a new line of weapons last I heard. He and his crew might have bought some from your friend. But don't go looking for the owner himself, you could get killed that way. Just listen around and find out what the people there know."

"Thanks." Hobbes replied.

"Just remember, Roberto, we never had this conversation."

"What conversation?" Hobbes inquired blithely, cocking an eyebrow at his old friend.

"That's the Hobbes I know." Juan replied. The two exchanged another embrace and then Hobbes herded his pupils out of the small, comfortably cluttered room.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hobbes looked at the address Juan had given him one more time. "Well kiddies, this is the place," he said, walking up to a small nightclub that moonlighted as a casino, and had the name Guardia del Diablo plastered in painfully bright fluorescent lights right above the front door. "We'll split up and start looking and listening for any information on Arnaud. We meet back here in an hour. And don't get anything on the tuxes, they're rented."

Darien and Eberts nodded. Hobbes and Eberts made sure to synchronize their watches. Darien just walked off, entering the casino with a relaxed pace that was somewhat forced. He glanced around, then ducked into a dark corner of the room and Quicksilvered. He walked over to the exchange table and surreptitiously reached out to grab a small handful of dólar chips of varying worth, allowing the Quicksilver to flow over them as well. Then he ambled back over to his dark corner, reappeared, and strutted over to Hobbes.

Hobbes tapped his watch and snapped, "Come back to synchronize?"

Darien shook his head and dropped the handful of bet chips in Hobbes' hand, making sure to keep a few for his own personal use. "Nope, came to give you a little extra weight to throw around." He wagged a finger in Hobbes' face. "And I expect to see a good amount of it come out of this casino with us." Then he turned and walked off, once again without even bothering to match the time on his watch with Hobbes.

Seeing a nice seat at the bar, he sat down and ordered a Corona. He paid careful attention to the conversations going on around him, but there was no mention of Arnaud.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hobbes walked up to the blackjack table; setting a 100 dólar bet chip in the center of the table, he waited for the dealer to deal. Turning over his face-down card he saw that he had a nine of diamonds; up top he had a King of Hearts. "I'll stay," he said.

The dealer's face revealed only total boredom as he droned, "The dealer is under sixteen, he must take a hit."

All Hobbes could see was a ten of Spades on top. He had no idea what the hidden card was, but it couldn't be more than a five. The added card was a four of Diamonds. "Dealer must stay."

Both men turned over their cards and Hobbes was shocked to see the dealer's hand of nineteen. They were both tied. "The dealer has more cards to equal same amount. House wins."

Hobbes played a few more games, unsuccessfully. He sighed. "You have a mirror under the table or something?"

"No sir, that would be against the rules."

"Speaking of against the rules," Hobbes said, placing a 500 dólar chip down on the table, "you see Arnaud De Föhn around here lately?"

"A lot of people play at the tables, sir. I can't say I remember all of their names."

The dealer's voice hadn't changed, but Hobbes saw him blink twice, so he placed another 500 dólar chip onto the table with smooth deliberation. "He's a little more noticeable than most of the people that come in here. He's a pretty boy with a funky accent."

"Oh, him. Swiss guy, right?" The dealer said, raking the two chips off the table and slipping them smoothly into a pocket.

"That's right," Hobbes replied.

"Haven't seen him for a while. But Michelle Cortez at the bar might know something. If she's here tonight. I saw him laughing and talking to her a few nights ago. She even gave him his drinks on the house."

"Thanks." Hobbes nodded and headed toward the bar, where Darien was nursing a drink and pulling at his tie.

"Got anything?" Darien asked with a hopeful look.

"Maybe," Hobbes replied, ready to speak further, but Darien interrupted.

"Because I'm ready to leave just any time."

"Down, puppy. I'll buy you a biscuit if you'll be a good boy." He looked at the bartender and said, "Is Michelle here tonight?"

"Over there," the bartender replied. He nodded toward a slender beauty who was maneuvering a tray loaded with drinks across the crowded floor with the practiced grace of a Chinese circus performer.

"Thanks," Hobbes said. He decided that he would wait for her to get back. He watched her circle the tray down and around as she leaned over to serve her table. After all, he thought with a smirk, it would be a pleasant wait.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Eberts looked around the room and saw Darien and Hobbes talking at the bar. So far he had managed to upset a rather apprehensive looking man with a leather jacket and a few tattoos; he had also knocked over a lamp while trying to get away from said man. He definitely preferred a room furnished with file cabinets and little else. He debated with himself over the necessity of checking in with Hobbes versus the effort of circumventing the numerous obstacles -- mostly people -- between them.

An overblown blonde slipped her hand on his arm and in a surprisingly husky voice said, "Hey handsome." Eberts frowned and decided that crossing the floor would be simpler than deciphering the blonde's true gender.

He started toward the bar and his colleagues, but the blonde stayed with him as if they were dancing a tango. He turned and pulled his arm free, only to body-slam into a waitress. She was carrying a full tray of drinks, and she circled it down, maintaining control even under direct collision -- until Eberts instinctively reached out to help her with the tray, overcompensating for its weight, as it was lighter than it appeared. The tray shifted, then lurched, spilling the alcohol all over her white shirt.

Horrified, he muttered apologies and pulled out his handkerchief, then tried to wipe the alcohol off her shirt. "I'm so sorry," he sputtered. "Let me help... Michelle," he added as he read her nametag.

She placed a hand on his chest and pushed him away firmly. "I think you've helped enough. If this is your way of asking for a drink..."

"No, no! I'm not usually this... You see, there was this blonde... person..." He looked around and the blonde was across the room now, laughing and blowing him a kiss.

"No. Please. Don't explain. Just get back to your blonde, and let me get back to work," she glared at him, willing him to move on.

"No. Really," Eberts made another awkward move for the tray, which Michelle managed to dodge. She placed her hand back on his chest to keep him at a safe distance.

"You need to leave. Now," she told him firmly.

Suddenly Hobbes was there, sliding between them, taking the handkerchief from Eberts and handing it to Michelle.

Eberts backed off a pace, to stand sheepishly next to Darien.

Hobbes was in smooth operator mode, "I apologize for my friend. How can we make it up to you? It's Michelle, right? Michelle Cortez?"

Her eyes narrowed slightly, "Well, for starters you could pay for these drinks."

Hobbes slid a fifty onto the tray.

"Not even," she said wryly.

He put down another fifty.

"Now, how did you find out my name?"

"I asked," he returned huskily.

"Whom?"

Darien made a face. "Whom? Isn't that, a little, you know... formal?"

"It's correct grammar... whom did you ask?" Michelle didn't seem concerned about Darien's interruption so much as Hobbes himself.

"I never reveal my sources, " Hobbes said with a wink.

"Fine," she returned the wink with a smile. "Neither do I." She snapped her fingers at a bouncer who was hovering, not unobtrusively.

"Outside. All three of you," he said, grabbing Hobbes and Darien each by one lapel.

"Hey, hey, hands off the suit," Hobbes objected. "We can leave politely."

"I've heard it all before," the bouncer said. Another bouncer followed behind, Eberts in tow.

"I think this is politely enough, Hobbesy," said Darien. "Don't you think, Eberts?"

And they were thrust unceremoniously out a back door into a dark alley. Eberts looked around, and mumbled back, "I think that's as polite as bouncing gets, Darien."

Hobbes brushed his lapels indignantly.

"Now what do we do?" Darien asked.

Hobbes declared, "Head back to the hotel and reevaluate our strategy." He pulled off his tuxedo jacket, draping it over his arm as he loosened the bow tie and walked toward the parking lot decisively.

"Oh yeah. If this is strategy, we definitely need to reevaluate," Darien mumbled as he stripped off his own tie.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act II

 

Darien and Eberts sat in the cab of the van, staring listlessly at the front doors of the casino they had been kicked out of the night before. Hobbes had assigned them to stake out the place while he made a few quick phone calls. But Hobbes hadn't made a few quick calls. They had been at their post for over an hour, and absolutely nothing had happened at the building in question, nor had Hobbes reappeared.

"This is getting old," Darien muttered to Eberts, running a hand across his face and looking longingly at the doughnut shop located on the far corner of the street. He had no doubt that if he so much as started to walk toward the building, Hobbes would materialize out of nowhere and lecture him on how he was on the job at the moment and should under no circumstances abandon his post, doughnuts or no doughnuts.

"I concur," Eberts said, an expression of pure boredom on his face.

Darien glanced over at Eberts. A mischievous grin spread across his face. "Hey Ebes, how would you like a doughnut?"

Eberts gave Darien a shocked look. "Are you implying that you want to leave your post?"

Darien shook his head. "No, I'm implying that you might want to leave your post. C'mon, I'll cover for ya."

"But that would be against protocol..."

"Which is exactly why Hobbes wouldn't expect you to do it."

Eberts shook his head. "I don't think I should..."

"C'mon Eberts," Darien whined, "it's just five minutes. And I could really go for a cream-filled right about now..."

Eberts raised an eyebrow. "Quite frankly, I've heard of your history with doughnuts, and I'm a bit skeptical."

Darien frowned. Eberts had a point. There had been one rather disturbing incident that had involved hot doughnuts back in his early days at the Agency. But that long-ago incident had been an isolated one, and this was now; hunger was arguing persuasively in favor of a snack. But, before Darien's retort had time to leave the tip of his tongue, Hobbes walked into view, pocketing his cell phone and looking extremely pleased with himself.

"I got a tip for us," Hobbes said, a cocky grin on his face. "One of Arnie's middlemen is in there," he gestured at the casino, "finalizing a weapons deal right now. And we," he said, gesturing to indicate Darien and Eberts as well as himself, "are gonna tail him to see if he leads us to Da Phone."

"De Föhn," Darien corrected automatically.

Hobbes gave Darien an irritated glare. "The guy's name is Gustave Fabienne. He doesn't have a car, so wherever he goes to report in, it'll be nearby."

"Does this mean we're actually going to do something besides these dumb stakeouts?" Hobbes nodded. Darien immediately sat up straighter in his seat, his boredom giving way to anticipation and excitement. "Alright, let's get it on! But... first could we get a doughnut?"

Hobbes gave Darien a look that was a cross between exasperation and borderline terror. "No, you may not get a doughnut!"

Darien stuck his lower lip out in a childlike pout. "I want a cream-filled."

"NO DOUGHNUTS!" Hobbes yelped.

Darien threw up his hands in surrender. "Fine! I'll just starve to death."

Hobbes snorted derisively and then shifted into agent mode, a stern expression appearing on his face. "Okay, we're gonna do a two-man tail with me here in case we need the van. You guys know your roles?"

Darien rolled his eyes. "I can guess. I'm gonna take point, with Eberts here as my backup."

Eberts began to speak, reciting his assignment with all the vivacity of a man who was about to attend a funeral. "If Agent Fawkes' presence is discovered, he is to move out of the range of easy detection and I am to take point." He didn't look particularly thrilled at the prospect.

"I just have one question," Darien injected. "Why are we avoiding the obvious? Why don't I just disappear and tail him that way?"

"Because this is a training exercise. For both of you. Standard tail. It's one of the basic skills you gotta have." Hobbes pulled out a pair of walkie-talkies, handing them to Darien and Eberts. "Okay, here ya go. Have fun. I'll let you know when our guy starts to make his move."

Darien frowned, looking down at the walkie-talkie. "Geez Hobbes, how do you expect us to pull off a decent tail with these things? They'll stand out like..."

"A Cossack at a bar mitzvah. I know." Hobbes rolled his eyes.

"Why couldn't we just use the Jack-in-the-Box headsets?" Darien whined.

"Only got two of those, my friend. Doesn't bode well for three-way conversations. This is all the Fat Man would spring for when it came to three-way radio contact. Not my fault he wouldn't go for something smaller."

Eberts bristled defensively. "The Agency's budget was extremely tight that month! These were the most inexpensive communications devices we could find that would actually prove useful..."

Darien placed a hand on Eberts' shoulder. "Whoa, slow down there, no need to get snippy." He held up his walkie-talkie and allowed the Quicksilver to flow over it, watching as it disappeared from sight. "There, problem solved."

Hobbes rolled his eyes and climbed into the van, placing his walkie-talkie in his lap. "Cute, Fawkes. Just get out there, will ya?"

Darien smirked and climbed out of the van, walked over to the building opposite the nightclub/casino and leaned casually on the faded brick wall. Eberts took up a position two houses down, trying to keep the walkie-talkie in his hands as unnoticeable as possible. Darien glanced down at his right hand, which was currently holding his own transparent two-way radio. His eyes automatically traced a path upward, taking in the view of his snake tattoo as well. It was so strange to see all of the segments green, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week... And it sent a skitter of relief up his spine every time he glanced at the tattoo and saw that yes, there were still no segments red.

Just then Darien's radio crackled to life, Hobbes' voice coming out through the invisible speaker. "OK Fawkes, you're on. Gustave just walked out of the alley beside the building. Short guy, fancy suit, Armani sunglasses."

Darien glanced surreptitiously at the alley next to Guardia del Diablo. Sure enough, a man fitting the description Hobbes had just relayed over the radio had just stepped out onto the sidewalk. He straightened his tie and began to walk along the sidewalk. He had a briefcase in one hand that Darien had good reason to suspect was full of money. Darien snorted and muttered into the radio, "Doesn't he know that dressing like that in a place like this just screams 'mug me'?"

"Maybe he's got a big enough reputation that he doesn't have to worry about that sorta thing," Hobbes retorted.

Darien frowned. Hobbes did indeed have a point. "Okay, moving out." Darien waited until Gustave was a good ten yards ahead of him and then began to walk down the street at a leisurely pace, every once in a while glancing over at his target. He also kept an eye on Eberts, who was following about twenty yards behind him. Hobbes had not yet moved from his original position, but Darien knew there was good reason for this; Gustave would be sure to notice a large, rusty tan van following him down the street. Darien certainly would have.

Gustave reached the end of the street and turned to the right, walking at a clipped pace. Darien crossed the street and continued to follow him, beginning to feel more than a little conspicuous. There were other people walking down the street besides him and Eberts, but not many. This wasn't exactly the best place to be tailing someone.

And that was proved when Gustave turned his head, looked directly at Darien, and then began to walk faster. Darien winced. "Aw crap, I think he made me."

"Alright, get outta sight and let Eberts take point," Hobbes said matter-of-factly.

Eberts' voice echoed out of the speaker, his tone a mixture of worry and resignation. "Oh dear..."

Darien slipped into the nearest alley, watching as Eberts slowly passed him by. Then he let the Quicksilver flow over his body and stepped back out of the alley, secure in the knowledge that he was no longer visible to the naked eye.

Eberts, on the other hand, was not so lucky. He was very visible and very nervous. Still, for all his anxiety he still managed to remain remarkably inconspicuous. If Darien hadn't known that Eberts was tailing Gustave, he never would have guessed.

Darien strutted up to Eberts and said in a low tone, "Hey, you're pretty good at this."

Eberts jumped slightly as Darien spoke. "Thank you," he said quietly, a half-smile flitting briefly over his face, "I've been practicing."

"I can tell," Darien said in an appreciative tone. His eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to him. "You haven't been practicing on me, have you?"

Eberts smirked and was about to reply, but suddenly paled. "Oh frell... he just made me."

Darien looked up at Gustave, who was walking at a relaxed pace. "I don't think so, you sure you aren't just nervous?" Gustave stopped and whirled around, pulling out a large gun and aiming it directly at Eberts. Darien felt the blood drain from his face. "Okay, you're right, he made ya."

Eberts dove for the sidewalk as Darien simultaneously shoved him to the ground. Gustave pulled the trigger and the bullet traced through the air Eberts' head had been occupying an instant before. It came less than an inch away from grazing Darien's cheek. Eberts yelped as his head slammed against the sidewalk. Darien threw himself to the ground beside Eberts; the Quicksilver fell off his lithe form on impact. He squeezed the talk button and yelled at the top of his lungs, "Hobbes, we need backup here!"

Moments later Golda careened around the street corner. Hobbes slammed on the brakes and the van skidded to a stop next to Darien and Eberts. Hobbes leaned out of the driver's side window, aiming his gun at Gustave. Fabienne immediately fired off two shots in Hobbes' direction. Hobbes swung back inside of the van, swearing loudly and motioning frantically for Darien and Eberts to get in. The two men threw open the large sliding side door and scrambled inside, all too happy to oblige.

Gustave fired another shot Hobbes' way and then leapt out into the street, causing a passing car to squeal to a stop. He yanked open the driver's side door, dragged the driver out by his shirt collar and climbed into the car. He slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, the car tires leaving a brief trail of rubber and smoke behind him as he sped out of sight.

Hobbes slammed his forehead down on Golda's steering wheel, hissing, "Damnit!"

Darien leaned back against the seat and let out a relieved sigh. "Actually, I thought it turned out pretty good."

Hobbes gave Darien a disbelieving look. Darien snapped, "Hey, we coulda gotten our heads blown off. I'd say it turned out pretty good."

Eberts gingerly touched a hand to the area of his head that had slammed against the sidewalk. When he removed it, small smears of blood were on his fingertips. He shook his head, muttering in a hushed tone, "I should have stayed in the motel..."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_This writer chick named Emily Kimbrough was once known to say, 'And remember, we all stumble, every one of us. That's why it's a comfort to go hand in hand.' Hobbes, Eberts and I... we agree with that sentiment wholeheartedly. After our little stumble when we tried to catch Gustave, we found it comforting to go hand in hand... straight to the nearest bar._

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien, Hobbes, and Eberts, who was sporting a butterfly bandage to keep the gash on his forehead from reopening, all sat on stools at the bar while the bartender mixed drinks behind the counter. Hobbes, being the designated driver, was sipping a tall glass of ginger ale. Darien was nursing a beer, an amused expression on his face. The reason for his amusement was Eberts, who had had a bit more to drink than was good for him.

"I shouldn't be drinking," Eberts said, taking a long swig of his beer. "I never drink. I have no toleransh-" he frowned and tried again, "no tolerance for alcohol."

Hobbes shook his head bemusedly and turned to Darien, his expression all business. "Okay, the way I see it, you did good and you did bad. It was your first try at tailing someone without the Quicksilver, and you did pretty well for a while there. But that was a little too conspicuous, crossing the street like that. Next time, you should let your partner cross the street and take point for a while, so that you can cut through an alley and take point again the next block over."

Darien frowned. "Why aren't you criticizing Eberts too?"

"He's too drunk. Probably won't remember any of this in the morning."

Eberts leaned toward Darien and Hobbes and tapped his head in a knowing manner. "I have a very good mem'ry."

Darien patted Eberts consolingly on the back. "We know that, Ebes. Hobbes was just saying, you're pretty toasted."

"Toasted, shmoasted. I'm drunk." Eberts turned to the bartender, held up a hand, and said in a slurred tone, "Uno más."

Darien pushed Eberts' hand back down. "No, no más." He glanced over at the bartender. "Please ignore him, he's had a rough day." The bartender muttered something derogatory in Spanish and turned to some of his other customers.

Darien turned back to Hobbes and sighed. "Ya know, if you'd just let me follow that creep invisibly, we woulda had him."

Hobbes glared at Darien in frustration. "But that would have undermined the whole exercise!"

"Hobbes, this isn't an exercise. It's me wanting to catch Arnaud and maybe put him through a little bit of the hell I've had to live through these past couple of years."

Hobbes crossed his arms stubbornly. "C'mon, you wanna catch Arnaud on your own merits, don't you?"

"Yeah, but right now the gland is one of those merits."

Eberts laughed drunkenly. "You don't usually treat it like one."

Darien whirled around, the muscles in his jaw tense as he demanded, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Eberts held up a hand in a placating manner. "Nothing. I just think that if I was the one with the gland I could get a lot more out of it than the inviso... invisib..." Eberts frowned as he tried to wrap his tongue around the word, "invisibility factor."

Darien leaned forward, focusing his gaze solely on Eberts in a distinctly unnerving fashion. "What sort of stuff? Are you saying I have other 'superpowers' they haven't told me about? X-Ray vision, or… uh…"

Eberts squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. "No, no, no. But if I were you, I could probably find a way to make money offa the fact that they stuck the gland in my brain. Maybe draw up a bill of some kind for using the Quicksilver. I'd want some sort of reward for bein' the re-cep-ta-cle," Eberts went over the longer word syllable by syllable to make sure he said it properly, "for a piece of gov-ern-ment e-quip-ment."

Darien raised an eyebrow. "So I can't fly or anything?"

Eberts' swayed his head back and forth.

"But this bill thing, would it work? I mean, really work?" Darien asked intently.

"Well, you'd have to list the usage properly, and you'd have to keep careful track of how much Quicksilver you used so you could charge the right amount. But posseshun is nine tenths of the law, and you are currently in posseshun of the gland." Eberts tapped the back of his head to prove his point, completely oblivious to his slurring of the word 'possession'.

Hobbes, who had thus far listened to the conversation in silence, stood and took the beer bottle from Eberts' hand. "Okay Charlie Brown, I think you've had enough drinks for tonight. C'mon, let's get you back to the hotel before you pass out," he said in a tone that could almost be considered paternal.

"'M fine," Eberts said, standing to his feet and shrugging off the helping hand that Hobbes offered him. He took two steps in the direction of the door and promptly fell flat on his face.

"Yeah, sure, you're in top condition," Hobbes said, bending down to help Eberts off of the ground.

"The floor hit me," Eberts said in a perplexed tone. "It attacked me. How did it do that?"

Darien placed his beer on the counter and assisted Hobbes in helping Eberts back to his feet. "Yeah, those barroom floors are vicious," he said, rather amused. Darien and Hobbes began to maneuver Eberts in the direction of the door. Darien glanced slyly at Eberts and then said in a deceptively casual tone, "So, umm, any more thoughts on how to pull off that Quicksilver bill thingy?"

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A short while later Hobbes pulled the van up in front of the motel, parking as close to the stairway leading up to the second level of rooms as was humanly possible. He pulled the keys out of the ignition, unbuckled his seatbelt, and glanced over at Darien, who was currently struggling to keep an unconscious Eberts in something close to an upright position.

"A little help here?" Darien requested irritably, opening his van door and attempting to find a way to unbuckle his seatbelt while still keeping Eberts from falling forward and hitting his head on the dashboard.

Hobbes laughed, shaking his head at the spectacle before him, and placed a hand on Eberts' shoulder, holding the unconscious man gently but firmly against the back of his seat. Darien unbuckled his seatbelt and leapt out of the van, saying in an exasperated tone, "Laugh it up, fuzz ball, but I'm not the one carrying him in."

Hobbes narrowed his eyes, saying in a casual tone, "Watch who you're calling fuzz ball, Chia-head." He released Eberts' seatbelt in one smooth motion and proceeded to pull the younger man out of the van and over his shoulders in a fireman's carry, hauling him up the stairs to the motel room. "Open the door," Hobbes grunted, nodding at Darien, who had made the trip up the stairs in half the time and was leaning cockily against the doorjamb.

"Keys," Darien said in a patronizing tone, gesturing to the rusted keyhole on the doorknob.

Hobbes crouched to lower Eberts' feet to the ground, then leaned him against the nearest wall, fishing the keys out of his suit pocket and tossing them over to Darien. Darien unlocked the door and opened it, standing out of the way and gesturing with mock civility for Hobbes to enter first. Hobbes picked Eberts back up and toted him inside the room, dropping him unceremoniously on the first available bed, which just happened to be Darien's.

"Hey!" Darien protested, "that's my bed!"

Hobbes turned to Darien and crossed his arms. "Correction. That was your bed. Now it belongs to Eberts."

"C'mon man, this isn't fair!"

"Hey, you're the one that got him drunk. It's your fault he passed out on the way here, and now you're gonna have to deal with the consequences. I'm sure you and the floor will get along just fine."

"Hobbes...." Darien growled in a dangerous tone. Hobbes, completely unfazed by Darien's attempts to undermine his authority, merely set his jaw and gave Darien a stern look. "Aw, come on Hobbesy, Ebes won't even feel the floor, not in the shape he's in...." Hobbes didn't budge. Darien finally sighed and threw his hands up in surrender. "Fine. I'll take the floor."

Hobbes inclined his head slightly in approval. "Alright, lights out. We've got a big day tomorrow."

Darien forcefully yanked his duffle bag up from where it had been resting at the foot of the bed and grabbed a pair of pajama pants, a t-shirt, and his toothbrush. Then he walked into the bathroom, slammed the door and hurriedly changed his clothes. He turned to the sink to wet his toothbrush and frowned. "Hey Hobbes, do Mexican motels usually come complete with these strange brown roach-shaped bars of soap sitting on top of the sink?" As he finished speaking, the 'roach-shaped bar of soap' moved, looking up at him with big, round insect eyes.

Darien leapt back, letting out a surprised yell. The soap-bar sized cockroach skittered down the drain. Hobbes opened the bathroom door and poked his head inside the room, giving Darien an irritated look. "What?"

Darien took a shaky breath. "I'd skip brushing my teeth tonight if I were you. We've just been paid a visit by Roach-zilla."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Gustave Fabienne stepped into a dark room, straightening his tie out of habit. When reporting to the boss, it was always a good idea to look your best. The room's sole occupant sat in front of a computer desk on the far corner of the room, his form shrouded in shadow. The man turned as Gustave approached him, looking at Gustave with ice-blue eyes. He inclined his head slightly to the left, clasped his hands in front of him in a business-like manner, and said crisply, "Well, Fabienne, what is it?" The softness of his Swiss-French accent belied the deadly acid in the seemingly innocent question.

Gustave squirmed slightly, distinctly uncomfortable with what he was about to report. The boss would not be pleased. "Sir, I thought that you might like to know.... A couple of men were tailing me earlier. They might be the men you warned me about."

Arnaud stood up, shock registering on his face. He pulled back the shades and looked out the window, his eyes flitting back and forth in a paranoid fashion as he surveyed the area outside the window. Once he was satisfied that he was in no immediate danger of being arrested he turned to glare at Gustave, his eyes cold with anger. "And you came back here? You idiot!"

"I lost them, I'm sure of it. I drove all over town to throw them off the trail," Gustave replied, trying to think of a way to diffuse Arnaud's temper. When the boss got mad, people had a tendency to disappear.

"It's really hard to find good help these days. I should just kill you now!" Arnaud almost spat.

Gustave flinched. He knew that this was far more than just an idle threat.

"Tell me what happened," Arnaud demanded resignedly.

Gustave, distinctly nervous now, began to explain hurriedly, hoping to forestall an explosion on the part of his employer. "I was on my way back here when I realized someone was following me, a white guy with big hair. He didn't strike me as a tourist. Once he realized I'd spotted him, he disappeared...."

"What do you mean, disappeared?" Arnaud demanded sharply.

Gustave shrugged. "He disappeared. You know... ducked down an alley or something."

Arnaud's eyes narrowed. "Continue."

"I was suspicious, so I kept an eye out, and a few minutes later I realized I was still being followed by someone else, a shorter man. He seemed to be rather... how do you say... a geek?" Gustave smirked. "I shot at him."

"Is he dead?"

"No, I missed. He got pushed out of the way by the taller man... I'm still not quite sure how I missed seeing him, I didn't even notice him until he was lying on the ground."

"Is  _he_  dead?" Arnaud asked, a little more eagerly.

Gustave shook his head. "No." He cleared his throat, unnerved by Arnaud's icy gaze. "There was a third man with a van, he pulled around the corner and tried to shoot at me. I decided that three against one weren't very good odds, so I commandeered a car and escaped."

"Anything else?" Arnaud hissed.

"No, nothing." Gustave shook his head and anxiously awaited his employer's reply.

Arnaud massaged his temples as if trying to ward off a headache. "Fabienne, your incompetence never ceases to amaze me. I told you to watch out for those men, and yet you played right into their hands. For all you know, Fawkes could have followed you all the way here."

Gustave said defensively, "The only way he could do that was if he were invisible." Arnaud's glare deepened. "Come on, you're not telling me he can... I mean, think about it! A man who can turn invisible." Gustave laughed. "It's impossible!"

Arnaud gave Gustave a harsh glare and reached casually under his coat, pulling out a gun. "Never rule out the impossible, Fabienne. Never rule out the impossible..."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act III

 

"Alright Rip Van Winkle, rise and shine!" Hobbes hollered, his mouth approximately a foot away from Darien's ear.

Darien grunted and lurched up into a sitting position, his eyes flying open. "Huh? What?"

Hobbes leaned in toward Darien, his face showing all the tenderness of a drill sergeant. "Get off your lazy butt! It's time to get crackin'! We have a Swiss-miss mother to catch, remember?"

Darien stumbled over to his duffle, fumbling around until he found his watch. He looked at the time and then turned to his partner disbelievingly. "Hobbes, it's five thirty in the morning!"

Hobbes crossed his arms, the military expression still preeminent on his features. "Yeah, which means we've wasted half an hour already. Get in that shower, NOW!" He pointed a finger over at the motel bathroom.

Darien glanced at the bathroom, then back at Hobbes, quite understandably appalled. "Hobbes, I wouldn't want to wash my hands in that bathroom."

"You think that's bad? That's nothing, my friend. Why, when I was in Beirut, I-"

"Okay, okay!" Darien yelled, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Just shut up, will ya? You're giving me a headache!"

Eberts, still lying in bed, let out a loud moan. Hobbes rolled his eyes. "Speaking of headaches..." He turned and walked over to Eberts, who was currently in the process of mashing his pillows down over his ears. "How's the hangover?" he asked loudly, throwing off the bedcovers and attempting to lift the pillow off of Eberts' head. Eberts held on tightly and stubbornly enough that Hobbes ended up elevating Eberts' head and upper torso along with it.

"Just let me die in peace," Eberts groaned, squeezing his eyes shut and wincing slightly at the sound of his own voice.

"Forget it, pal," Hobbes said, finally managing to wrest the pillow out of Eberts' grasp, "you are gonna join the rest of the world."

Darien whined, "Hobbes, the rest of the world is asleep."

"Yeah well, crime never sleeps, my friend, and if we're gonna catch Arnaud we need to start thinkin' like 'im."

"Thinking like Arnaud..." Darien grimaced as he began to consider this singularly unappealing prospect. However, after a few moments he abruptly snapped his fingers together, a cocky grin appearing on his face. "I know how we can catch him!"

Hobbes narrowed his eyes. "Oh yeah, genius? How?"

Darien crossed his arms, saying in a satisfied tone, "C'mon, what's the best way to catch a criminal? By outthinking him, by conning the con."

Hobbes nodded thoughtfully. "So you think if we pose as terrorists lookin' to buy some big-time weaponry Arnaud will actually bother to show up?"

Darien shrugged. "All we gotta do is make him an offer he can't refuse. And make sure he doesn't find out we're the ones making the offer, obviously."

Hobbes frowned. "Kinda hard to make those sorts of offers when you ain't got no cash."

Darien placed a hand on Hobbes' shoulder. "Hobbesy, Hobbesy, Hobbesy, it's all about bluffing. If we can just manage to bluff our way into the Swiss-miss's antechamber we'll be all set." Eberts mumbled something unintelligible and sat up in bed, massaging his temples. Darien frowned. "Of course, we'll have to do something about hangover boy there," he added, gesturing toward Eberts with his thumb.

"Leave that to me," Hobbes smirked. He turned back to Eberts and said in a singsong tone, "Oh Eberts, I think it's time we dealt with that little hangover of yours."

Eberts opened his eyes and glared up at Hobbes, saying in a decidedly nasty tone, "Come any closer and I'll make sure that three on your paycheck gets changed into a zero."

Hobbes hastily stepped back, glancing nervously over at Darien. "On second thought, I think I'll let you take charge of the sobering up."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hobbes walked out of a small gas station. As he climbed back into the van he handed Eberts a brown paper bag. "Here, you might need these."

"What is it?" Eberts asked suspiciously.

"Just open it."

Eberts reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of B Vitamins and a pair of cheap sunglasses. "Thanks, I think. B vitamins? My head feels like it's in a vice and you bought me B vitamins?"

"A hangover's basically dehydration of the brain, Eberts. You should know that. B vitamins are the fastest way to get you back in shape. Trust me." He started the ignition and started to drive. After about ten minutes he stopped the van and got out. He poked his head back into the van and smiled. "OK kiddies, behave while daddy's away."

Darien picked up the first thing he could find, which happened to be a comb, and threw it at Hobbes. "Just go already, I don't want to stay in this crappy rust bucket any longer than I have to."

"Geez, Fawkes, you don't have to throw things," Hobbes chastised as he picked up the comb and set it on the dashboard.

"Why do you have a comb anyway? It's not like you have any hair," Darien said, but found himself talking to empty air; Hobbes was already gone. "What do you think?" he asked Eberts. When he received no answer he turned around and saw Eberts sitting on the floor of the van with a jacket over his ears. He couldn't help but laugh. "Hey Ebes?"

Noticing that Darien was talking to him, Eberts slightly uncovered his ears. "What?"

"Why would Hobbes need a comb?"

Eberts stared back at Darien in confusion. However, before he could even try to register what Darien was asking him the drivers' side door opened up and Hobbes jumped in. "Looks like all my hard work paid off, I found out where Cortez lives."

Darien ran a hand across his face. "Aw, c'mon Hobbesy, we're not gonna visit her...."

"Could the two of you please speak more quietly?" Eberts asked in a hoarse whisper. "And who is this Cortez person?"

Darien shook his head and commented, "She's the woman who you bumped into at Guardia del Diablo the other night."

"The one that got us kicked out," Hobbes added, his eyes narrowing with displeasure.

"Michelle?" Eberts queried.

"…ma Belle," Darien murmured.

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Eberts pressed one hand over his sunglasses as if they pained him. "Because I got the impression she didn't like us."

"What gave you that idea? Having us thrown in an alley by a couple of oversized bozos was probably her idea of flirtation, Eeeeeeeberts," Hobbes replied sarcastically. "Look, she's our best lead right now." He held up a hand. "Correction. She's our only lead right now. And we need to get to her apartment before she leaves for work."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Fifteen minutes later, Hobbes pulled into the parking lot of the small apartment complex. "Okay, here's how we're gonna play it. Eberts, you stay in the van." He shoved a bottle of water into Eberts' hands. "Rehydrate your brain. Fawkes, you're with me."

Darien groaned and got out of the van. "So what's the plan, here?"

Hobbes shrugged. "We ask her a few questions."

Darien rolled his eyes. "Great plan."

"And if she doesn't answer 'em, you do a little invisible recon in her apartment."

"Hobbes...." Darien protested, but trailed off as Michelle opened the door.

Hobbes gave Michelle a charming smile. "Hi. You might not remember us--" He was cut off as Michelle abruptly slammed the door shut. "Okay, maybe you do," he said, raising an eyebrow.

Hobbes knocked again and waited a moment, but the door didn't swing open again. Undaunted, he began to pound on the door, his fist impacting hard enough on the wood that the surrounding wall shook. After about a minute of this the door abruptly swung open to reveal an irate Michelle Cortez. "What do you want?" she snapped, her nostrils flaring with anger.

"I just need to ask you a few questions," Hobbes said, placing his foot in between the door and the doorjamb so she was unable to close the door again.

"You know, stalking is illegal," Michelle hissed.

"Look," Darien said, "It's okay, I mean, we don't even want you."

Michelle glared daggers at him.

"Okay," Darien regrouped, "Let me rephrase that. . What we want is information. From you. We want to find this guy, Arnaud De Föhn...."

Michelle tensed. "Leave. Now."

"I know you know where I can find 'im," Hobbes said, crossing his arms in an intimidating fashion.

"You know nothing," Michelle retorted, and attempted to slam the door closed. Hobbes' eyes widened slightly as she nearly crushed his foot, but he didn't say anything and he didn't remove his foot. The door remained open.

"Okay, Michelle," Hobbes said, pulling out a picture of Arnaud. "We really need to find this man. Someone said you might know where he is."

She shook her head. "Look. I don't want anything to do with him. He's bad news. And he'll hurt me."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"No. Uh-uh."

Darien stepped closer, flashed his badge, and delivered a practiced sounding, "Federal Agents, Ma'am. If you'll cooperate, we can offer you protection." Hobbes glanced over at Darien and raised an eyebrow. Darien shrugged.

"This isn't America," Michelle snapped. "You have no jurisdiction in Mexico. You can't expect me to be impressed by that badge. Besides, nothing can protect me from him." Michelle tried to close the door again. But Darien reached out, grabbed her hand, and Quicksilvered them both.

Darien's disembodied voice replied, "How's this for nothing? Feel safe now?"

Quicksilver flaked off and they reappeared.

"How did you do that?" Michelle asked suspiciously.

"Never mind that," Hobbes inserted. "Where can we find Arnaud?"

She studied them for a moment, then said, "Across the alley from Guardia del Diablo."

"Thanks." Hobbes replied. He and Darien turned in tandem and walked toward the van. Michelle looked alarmed and called after them.

"Hold on! How are you gonna protect me if you leave now?"

"We're gonna get Arnaud. That's how." Hobbes shot over his shoulder.

"But... but what about that 'nothing' thing? That was pretty cool..."

"That's how we catch him," Hobbes replied.

As they got into the van, Michelle took a couple of steps forward, "But I don't want you to leave..."

"Hobbes?" Darien asked, feeling torn.

"Always leave 'em wanting more, my friend," Hobbes replied evenly, "always leave them wanting more."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hobbes pulled his van up in front of Guardia del Diablo. "Hobbes, maybe I should go in first and do a little snooping?" Darien suggested. "Just in case. I don't really think that we want to run into Arnie here."

"Good idea." Hobbes replied.

"But," Eberts started, "I thought we were here to find Mr. De Föhn."

"Here's another lesson for you, Eberts. Never do anything without a plan. If we went in there right now and he

was there, he would run. And knowing that we were on his tail, he wouldn't come back. Then all of this would have been for nothing. Always choose your battleground."

Eberts considered this momentarily, then nodded. "Right."

"Well, while you two have your agent-to-agent moment I'm gonna do some invisible recon." With that said, Darien let the Quicksilver flow over his body.

"Fawkes?" Hobbes stuck his head around the corner, knowing he wouldn't be able see his partner anyway. He threw his hands up in frustration. "Great, what about the backup plan?"

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien stood by the door, watching two men who stood in the corner of the alley, cigarettes in hand, deep in conversation.

"I tried to warn him, but he just won't listen. He bets almost everything on a game and hopes he wins. One of these days he won't be so lucky. He'll lose everything," one of the men said.

"Maybe we should go back inside, Saludes," the other suggested. The first man, apparently named Saludes, looked at his watch and then nodded. He tossed his cigarette butt on the ground, then stepped on it to make sure it was out.

Darien followed the pair as they entered the building. The front room was dimly lit; no one was in sight other than the two men in front of him. He followed them through another door and was shocked to see at least 50 people laughing, talking, drinking, and gambling.

He continued to follow the two men and watched as they entered an office. "Hey, boss, everything looks good outside." The man sitting at the desk nodded and then shooed them away with a wave of his hand. Darien heaved a sigh of relief. Other than the main room he had just passed and the small office, he hadn't seen any other rooms. The coast was clear. Arnaud was nowhere to be seen.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hobbes leaned against the outside of the van and shook his head. "I swear, it's inhuman, Eberts. Your hangover should be gone by now."

Eberts rolled his eyes. "Well, Robert," he replied, "I haven't had many hangovers, and my tolerance for alcohol obviously isn't very good."

"I'm just saying..." Hobbes started, then yelped as he felt a cold hand placed on his shoulder. "Damnit Fawkes, don't do that!"

Darien reappeared and gave Hobbes an innocent look. "Do what?"

"Sneak up on people like that!"

"Normally I'm asked to sneak up on people," Darien said defensively. "I was just practicing."

Eberts covered his ears; he looked rather dizzy.

Hobbes frowned. "Umm, Eberts? You okay there, buddy? You look a little green."

Eberts didn't have time to reply; he quickly turned around and vomited everything he had eaten in the last twenty-four hours and then some.

"Oh, that's just wrong," Darien said unhappily, stepping back. Hobbes nodded ruefully.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

After giving Eberts several minutes to recover, the three men walked into the building. Darien led the way, since he knew where he was going. When he opened the main door all eyes were on them. Darien wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a few people reach into their jackets, letting him know they had guns.

Saludes walked up to them, but addressed Darien because he was the first one in. "What is your business here?"

"We need to talk with your boss."

"I don't have a boss."

"Then what's behind door number three over there?" Darien inquired sarcastically, pointing to the wooden door he had seen Saludes and the other man walk through earlier.

Saludes eyed him quizzically, then looked toward the door. "That's a storage closet."

"Then you won't mind if we take a look." Hobbes said firmly, walking toward the door. Darien and Eberts followed him.

Hobbes opened it, and the man at the desk looked up, but seeing Hobbes annoyance transformed to wariness, and he stood. "Who are you?"

"We're here to talk business." Hobbes said gruffly. "Javier recommended you to us."

"And how do you know Javier?" the man asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.

Darien cleared his throat. "We've had a few... business encounters with him in the past."

"Want me to take care of them?" Saludes asked, cracking his knuckles menacingly.

"No," the man replied, dismissing Saludes with a wave of his hand. "I'll talk with them. Come in." He pointed to the two chairs sitting in front of the desk. "Have a seat. I am sorry that I can't offer more." Darien and Hobbes took a seat, while Eberts hovered by Darien's left shoulder as if searching for a surrogate Official to adhere to. "I'm Raul Rodriguez, and you are?"

Hobbes shook his head. "No names. I need to make sure that our security isn't compromised."

"I assure you, señor. Any information you give me will stay with just me."

"It's just a precaution. Nothing personal," Hobbes replied shortly.

Rodriguez' gaze repeatedly flitted over to Eberts, then back to Hobbes. Finally he nodded toward Eberts, who was wearing dark sunglasses and still had his butterfly bandage firmly in place. "What's with him?"

Hobbes leaned back in his seat and said casually, "That's my bodyguard, I like to call him Killer. Got in a fight last night with some wannabe assassin. Twisted the guy up like a pretzel."

Rodriguez frowned skeptically. "Really?"

Darien nodded. "Oh yeah. He's much tougher than he looks." He surreptitiously poked Eberts in the ribs in an attempt to make him look more dangerous. Eberts managed a half-hearted growl, as much at Darien as anything else.

Hobbes stared at Rodriguez and said quietly, "Ya might not want to talk too loud. Killer here had a few too many drinks with some of the ladies last night, and... well, let's just say that when he's got a hangover he has a tendency to tear off limbs."

Rodriguez raised an eyebrow. "I'll remember that.... Now, what exactly can I do for you?"

"We need you to set us up with this guy, Arnaud De Föhn. I hear you're acquainted with him."

Rodriquez pursed his lips. "Even if I did know this Señor De Föhn you are referring to.... Why are you looking for him?"

Hobbes folded his hands in his lap. "That's kinda none of your business, isn't it? We need to talk to him. And only him."

"Everything goes through me. You need to meet with him about something, then you need to let me know what it is."

"We're looking for a certain kind of merchandise we were told he might have." Hobbes stated.

"And what kind would that be?" Rodriguez asked.

"The fully automatic, armor piercing, complete with night-scope kind," Darien said in a nonchalant tone.

Rodriguez nodded. "Now you're speaking my language." He took a Post-it note and scrawled down an address. "Meet me here tomorrow at 11:00 a.m. I'll make sure that my boss is there. We can work out all the details then." He handed the piece of paper to Hobbes.

Hobbes took the piece of paper, read over the address, and then nodded. "Wouldn't miss it for the world." He stood to his feet and walked out of the door, followed by Darien and Eberts.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"I don't like this, Hobbes," Darien muttered as he stepped out of the van, his brow furrowed and his hands entrenched firmly in his pockets.

Hobbes turned toward Darien and placed his hands on his hips. "What's your problem now, hotshot? This was your freakin' idea in the first place!"

"Yeah, well, it's too easy, for one thing," Darien grumbled. This might have been his idea, but the more he thought about it the more his con sense tingled. Something was wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something was definitely wrong.

Eberts climbed out of the van and habitually reached up to straighten his tie. "Don't worry," he said in a reassuring tone, "everything seems to have gone fine so far."

"That's what worries me," Darien said stubbornly.

"And I thought I was paranoid," Hobbes griped sourly. He pulled out his Colt .45, checked the safety, and tucked it into his waist holster. Then he leaned back inside the van and pulled two more guns out of the glove compartment. He handed one of the guns to Eberts and offered the other one to Darien.

Darien shook his head firmly. "No." Hobbes ignored Darien's protest and thrust the gun firmly into the waist of the taller man's pants. Darien yanked it free and shoved it back into Hobbes' hands, hissing adamantly, "No!"

Hobbes pressed the gun into Darien's palm. "If you walk in there without a gun Arnaud's men won't let us anywhere near him. In this business, everyone carries a piece. You'll look more suspicious if you don't have one than if you do."

"Not if they don't see me go in," Darien said pointedly. He allowed the Quicksilver to flow over his body and then dropped the gun back into Hobbes' hands. "You're a better aim than me anyway," he said as the Quicksilver flaked off the gun in Hobbes' palm.

"Fawkes...." Hobbes trailed off, heaving a resigned sigh. He tucked the extra gun into the waistband of his pants, muttered a few choice words under his breath and began to walk toward the assigned meeting place, followed closely by Eberts and a very invisible Darien.

The three men rounded a corner and turned onto a narrow side street. A large, dilapidated building was sprawled out on the far end. Rodriguez stood in front of it, his stance seemingly casual. However, upon closer inspection it became apparent that his hand was never far from his gun.

Hobbes walked up to Rodriguez, all business as he inquired, "Is the meeting on?"

Rodriguez gave a slight nod. "This way." He gestured to the entrance of the building. Hobbes opened the door and walked inside, making sure to give Darien plenty of time to get inside as well. Eberts followed.

Darien suddenly realized that Rodriguez had not walked inside yet. He was about to quietly point this fact out to Hobbes when he suddenly felt a rain of softball-sized items tumble onto his head and shoulders. He looked down, puzzled, and promptly panicked when he saw that he was now covered in large tarantulas.

Eberts' yowl of dismay and Hobbes' confused "What the hell?" were completely drowned out by Darien's escalating scream of terror. He scrambled away from the area where the most spiders were gathered and began to frantically brush off the ones that had managed to cling to his lanky form, the Quicksilver falling to the ground as he found himself unable to maintain proper control of his adrenaline levels.

A chilling laugh was what brought Darien back to his senses. He knew that laugh very well. It was forever burned into his brain. It haunted his nightmares. And it belonged to....

Arnaud stepped out of the shadows of the far corner of the room, applauding laconically. "Hello, Fawkes. Fancy not seeing you here." He smirked at his wordplay. "Thank you for that amusing performance. It made my day."

Hobbes whipped out his guns and aimed them at Arnaud. He cast a quick glare at Darien and muttered, "You and your damn spiders..." Then he turned his full attention to Arnaud. "Okay De Freak, I think you've had enough fun for today. You're under arrest."

Arnaud shook his head. "I don't think so." He snapped his fingers and a dozen men promptly stepped out of the shadows, each equipped with a large gun and thermal goggles. "Shoot them," Arnaud said coldly. "Shoot them all."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act IV

 

Darien paled as Arnaud's men turned their guns in his direction. This was it. He was about to die, mercilessly gunned down just like Kevin. He was about to fall to the ground with his brains splattered all over the pavement. He...

He had a spider crawling up his leg.

Operating purely on instinct, Darien yelped, Quicksilvered the spider and flung it up into the air. Arnaud's minions, startled by the sudden temperature change that registered on their thermal goggles, adjusted their aim and promptly shot the invisible arachnid to pieces.

Before the flunkies had time to recover Hobbes fired off two shots, hitting one man in the chest and another man in the knee. Eberts drew his gun and fired off a shot as well. Darien, not particularly pleased at the thought of getting hit by return fire, dove for cover behind the nearest crate. A few seconds later he was joined by Hobbes and Eberts; apparently, they weren't too keen on getting shot either.

After a minute Darien peeked up over the edge of the crate. Arnaud's dirty dozen had been reduced to a slimy seven, and they had whipped off their thermal goggles in an attempt to improve their aim. But that wasn't what caught Darien's attention. What caught his attention was the fact that Arnaud was slipping out the side door of the building.

"Oh no you don't, you Swiss-miss mother," Darien growled, allowing the Quicksilver to flow over his body once again. Hobbes tried to make a grab for Darien, his hand lunging out to where the taller man had been moments before, but it was too late. Darien leapt to his feet and charged toward Arnaud, heedless of the bullets flying all around him.

A small part of Darien's brain registered the fact that Hobbes was yelling "Fawkes!" at the top of his lungs, but he didn't have time to reply. He couldn't let Arnaud escape again, not this time!

Arnaud dashed out of the side door and began to run haphazardly through the alley it opened onto, slamming the door behind him. Darien rushed after him, flung the door open, and scrambled out into the alley. Arnaud glanced behind him as he heard the door crash open and frowned when he saw nothing there. He shook his head and put on an extra burst of speed. "Merde," he hissed venomously.

Darien, closing fast, reached out, snagged Arnaud roughly by the shirt collar and pulled him to a stop so fast that the shorter man nearly fell over backwards. "You know, you should really watch your French," he admonished.

Arnaud turned to look in Darien's approximate direction. "You're one to talk." He pulled out a gun and aimed it in the general vicinity of Darien's chest. "I would suggest that you let me go, now."

Darien laughed. "You sure about that?" He released his hold on Arnaud's collar, took two steps to the left so as to be out of the way of the gun, and then batted it to the ground. The gun discharged, but the only thing the bullet hit was age-cracked pavement. Darien renewed his grip on Arnaud's shirt and allowed the Quicksilver to flake off of him, bending over so that he and Arnaud were nose to nose. "I would suggest that you come with me, now."

"I can make you a deal," Arnaud said hurriedly, "I can make you a deal you won't be able to refuse."

Darien shook his head. "Sorry, not interested."

"Even if it means getting the gland out of your head once and for all?"

Darien's eyes narrowed. He was indeed interested. Still, he couldn't let Arnaud know that. "C'mon Arnie, you really think I'll fall for that old scheme?"

"I got the gland out of my head, didn't I?"

"Chrysalis got the gland out of your head," Darien corrected.

"And I have the information on how they did it," Arnaud replied. He held up a small CD-ROM. "It's all here. Everything. The order in which each individual area should be disconnected, the best methods to use during the surgery.... Everything," Arnaud simpered. "And I'm willing to give it to you... if you'll let me go."

The muscles in Darien's jaw tightened as he debated the possibilities. His ultimate goal right now -- besides killing Arnaud -- was to get the gland out of his brain. And yet, he couldn't set aside the fact that Arnaud had tried to play him countless times before. The disk could very well be a fake. But, then again, it might actually be the real thing...

"I have no reason to believe you," Darien said quietly, looking Arnaud straight in the eye.

"You can't afford not to," Arnaud replied in a similar tone. Darien took a slow breath and absently nibbled on his lower lip. Arnaud's lips turned upward in a self-satisfied manner. "Which do you want more..." he held up the disk and waved it tauntingly, "this or me?"

Darien's eyes narrowed. "Ya know what? I think I'll take the two-for-one deal." He reached out his free hand and attempted to snatch the disk from Arnaud's grasp, but Arnaud pulled away and then with a flick of his wrist sent the disk flying like a Frisbee.

Darien swore and grabbed for the airborne disk, his grip loosening just enough on Arnaud's collar that the other man was able to break free. One hand swept down to grab his gun and then Arnaud fled down the alley, firing wildly behind him as he ran. Darien dove to the ground and flung his arms over his head; when he looked up a moment later, Arnaud was gone. He rushed down to the end of the alley just in time to see Arnaud wave arrogantly as he drove off in a fancy silver convertible.

"Damn," Darien muttered under his breath. He clenched his fists in frustration. "Crap, crap, crap...." He heaved a deep sigh and ran a hand through his hair. He had let Arnaud slip through his fingers yet again. Finally, after several seconds of staring at the empty street, he turned and walked back toward the alley, his shoulders slumped with disappointment.

Darien walked back to the door that led into the building and reached for the handle, but paused. Something had caught his eye. He walked over and bent down in front of the object that had grabbed his attention: the round iridescent plastic of the CD-ROM. The disk lay on the edge of a shallow puddle. Darien winced, picked it up, and shook it off in the hopes that the pavement hadn't scratched it enough to render it useless. Then he stood and turned, walking back to the door of the building. He swung the door open slowly, unsure what to expect.

If the inside of the building had seemed in bad condition before, it was far worse now. The walls were riddled with bullet holes. The bodies of Arnaud's men -- those that hadn't run away -- lay on the ground, dead or wounded. Hobbes and Eberts stood in a corner of the room, leaning against one of the walls. They looked battered, bruised, and exhausted. Darien, not nearly as battered or bruised but emotionally spent, walked over and leaned against the wall beside them.

Hobbes looked over at Darien and heaved a deep sigh. "Didn't catch him, huh." He wasn't asking a question, he was making a statement.

Darien gave a slight nod. "Yeah, but I got this." He held up the disk.

Eberts took hold of the disk and looked at it eagerly. "Do you have any idea of the contents?" he asked curiously, eyeing the disk the way Hobbes looked at his van and his surveillance equipment.

"It might... it might have information on how to take out the gland," Darien said quietly.

Hobbes glanced over at Darien. "It might, huh?" He stroked his chin thoughtfully for a moment and then shrugged. "Well, we can look into that later. First, we need to find De Föhn."

Darien shook his head. "He's long gone by now, Hobbesy."

Hobbes raised an eyebrow. "So you're just gonna give up? Not even gonna bother looking?"

Darien considered for a moment and then looked over at Eberts, who was staring at the disk as if it were the holy grail of CDs. "C'mon Ebes, let's go catch us a Swiss-miss mother."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_I've tried -- and failed -- to catch Arnaud more times than I want to count. But in my opinion, it's like what baseball great Babe Ruth said... 'Every strike brings me closer to the next home run.' And when my home run finally does come around, I'm gonna hit it out of the park._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Late that night Darien, Hobbes and Eberts limped back into the motel room, tired and sore. They had used every contact Hobbes had in the area, but all this had only served to confirm the fact that Arnaud was no longer in Tijuana. They had finally decided to go back to the motel to tend their aching muscles and to investigate the contents of the disk Arnaud had left behind.

The three men sat down on one of the motel beds, which were the only things in the room even vaguely reminiscent of chairs, and gathered around Eberts' laptop. Darien watched in anticipation as Eberts booted the computer up and then began to examine the disk.

Eberts shook his head. "The disk is badly damaged..." Darien heaved a resigned sigh. "But," Eberts continued, "I believe I can recover the data." Darien looked immensely relieved at this. Eberts' hands flew over the keys for several long moments, and then a pleased smile crossed his face. "There. We should be able to access it now." He typed in the string of commands that would begin to open the disk's files.

Hobbes frowned as the computer screen suddenly went black. "That's not good," he muttered.

Eberts' eyes widened; apparently, he didn't think it was very good either. However, before he could do anything, a familiar face appeared on the screen. "Hello Fawkes," Arnaud said, his lips turned up in a smug grin.

Eberts frowned. "It appears to be some sort of video file...." Everyone leaned closer to see what would happen.

Arnaud's image flickered for a moment on the computer screen and then returned to normal. "If you are watching this, it means that I gave you this disk claiming that it held the key to the removal of your Quicksilver gland. Unfortunately for you, this is not the case. I would like to thank you for exposing yourself to my incompetent employee, Gustave Fabienne. The man was an idiot; I have taken the liberty of terminating his employment," Arnaud said ruthlessly, leading Darien to believe that Gustave's employment was not the only thing that had been terminated. "However, if he had not discovered you, I might have remained blissfully unaware of your presence here until it was too late. I have your incompetence to thank for that."

Darien glared at the computer screen and wished that Arnaud had taken the liberty of saying this in person. He wanted nothing better at the moment than to wipe the supercilious grin off of the Swiss-Frenchman's face with a punch to the jaw.

"Now, you may be wondering why I bothered to create this disk. I can assure you, it was not merely a distraction to aid my escape." Arnaud paused to savor the moment. "This is actually a Trojan Horse." Eberts' eyes widened and he began to type frantically, his attempts to quit the program fruitless. Arnaud's eyes sparkled with merriment as he continued. "It has been specially designed to wipe the hard drive of the computer you used to access it, as well as the hard drives of any computers networked to it. I only hope for your sake that you did not wait to attempt opening it until you got to your Keeper's lab... that would be quite unfortunate. For you..." The sneer on Arnaud's face indicated that he did not feel it would be unfortunate in the least.

Hobbes reclined back on the bed. "Well, looks like we outsmarted that Swiss bastard. There's nothing important on this computer, right?" Hobbes glanced over at Eberts, who was typing even faster than before, his face extremely pale. "Umm, right?"

Sweat beaded on Eberts' brow. "Actually, this computer contains a plethora of vital information to the Agency, including a dossier of the paychecks and raises listed for all of our agents next quarter..."

"Shut it off! Shut it off!" Hobbes yelped.

"I'm trying!" Eberts returned as he continued to type commands into the computer, none of which had any effect.

"Once the disk has been activated there is no way to stop it, so you needn't bother trying," Arnaud chided, almost as if he could see their futile attempts to impede the hacking program's process.

"The hell there isn't," Darien snarled. He snatched the computer from Eberts' grasp and flipped it over. Then he unceremoniously yanked out the battery. Arnaud's face flickered and then disappeared from the monitor, replaced by the serene black that indicated the computer had lost all power. The three men gave out a collective sigh of relief.

The next few minutes were filled with a tense silence as Eberts carefully ejected the disk, replaced the battery and rebooted his computer. Hobbes leaned forward and asked in a worried tone, "So, what'd you lose?"

Eberts began to carefully scan through his files, a deep frown on his face. "A report I was in the process of editing, some insurance records... and," his face fell, "the crux of my passive surveillance network."

Darien looked over at Eberts worriedly. "Can't you just rebuild it? I mean, you put it together once, you can do it again, right?"

Eberts looked up at Darien forlornly. "I can do that, but... we have no idea where Arnaud went. He could be anywhere on the globe." He shook his head sadly. "It will be very difficult for the program to produce accurate results without any information to start from."

Hobbes stared at the computer monitor and squirmed. "Um... What about the paycheck stuff? You know, the raises and all. Did that stuff get deleted?"

Eberts frowned and did a quick search. "No, it's still intact."

Hobbes heaved a relieved sigh. "Well, at least I'll still get my raise..."

Eberts glanced over at Hobbes in surprise. "You aren't listed as one of the people to be given raises, Robert. Whatever gave you that idea?"

Hobbes stared at Eberts for a long moment, his face an interesting shade of red. Finally he held up a finger. "Excuse me." He turned and stormed out of the motel room.

Darien glanced over at Eberts. "You might want to cover your ears, this isn't gonna be pretty."

Hobbes' voice began to float through the door into the motel room. It was impossible to make out exactly what he was saying, but a few words were discernable. 'Daddy's little pencil pusher' and 'bureaucratic pig' were some of the more noticeable comments; there were also several remarks about the Official's questionable parentage. Eberts listened with wide eyes. Darien merely began to dig through his duffle in the hopes that he would find a pair of earplugs.

After a few minutes Hobbes walked back into the room. His face was no longer red with anger, but his eyes had a dangerous glint in them that Darien would have found most unnerving if he had not seen it several times in the past. "Feel better?" he asked casually. Hobbes' only reply was to smash his fist into the nearest wall. "Guess not," Darien quipped.

"Get some rest," Hobbes growled. "We're goin' home first thing in the morning."

"Awww, and I was just getting used to the crappy living conditions and six-legged roommates."

Eberts clambered under the bedclothes, a stubborn expression on his face. "This is my bed." He glared at Darien, daring the taller man to challenge his claim.

Darien turned to Hobbes. "Ya know, you're the only one who hasn't slept on the floor yet...." Hobbes gave Darien a murderous glare. Darien immediately began to backpedal. He put his hands up in an attempt to pacify his incensed partner and said in a soothing tone, "Okay, I'll just pull out the sleeping bag, then...."

"Good choice there, my friend," Hobbes said, his steely gaze focused on his partner.

Darien heaved a reconciled sigh and began to gather his nightclothes together for another sojourn on the floor. He stepped into the bathroom and turned to the sink. His eyes promptly widened and he took a step back. Roach-zilla was back... and it had invited several of its six-legged friends to join it as well. Darien whirled around and charged back out of the bathroom door, yelling at the top of his lungs, "HOBBES!"

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Hobbes pulled the van to a stop at the US/Mexican border. Darien leaned back against his seat, an irritated expression on his face. He was going home, but before he did so he would have to brave yet another car trip with, horror of horrors, Hobbes and Eberts together in the same confined space. And he didn't even have the option of taunting Arnaud to alleviate the boredom.

His train of thought was interrupted as Hobbes slammed a hand down on the steering wheel and muttered, "Well, hell."

Darien looked up. "What?" It didn't take long for him to realize what had upset Hobbes. A Customs agent was walking toward them -- the same one they had had to deal with when they first attempted to enter Tijuana. Darien paled. "Aw crap..."

The Customs agent walked up and rapped sharply on Hobbes' window. "Well, hello Mr. Fish and Game," he said, a predatory grin on his face.

Darien glanced over at Hobbes and whispered, "Ya know what? I kinda like Mexico. You think we can stay here a little longer? Like until this guy retires?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag

 

Darien stormed into the office he and Hobbes shared. "What is this supposed to mean?" he asked, holding up a piece of paper. It was the report Hobbes had written of what he, Darien, and Eberts had done while in Mexico. Arnaud's name had not been mentioned anywhere in the report, naturally.

Hobbes looked up from the paperwork he was filling out and raised an eyebrow. "What're you talking about?"

Darien slammed the report down on Hobbes' desk and flung the manila folder open; he flipped through the papers until he found the one where Hobbes had marked down the evaluations he had given Darien and Eberts. "This. Right here."

Hobbes glanced at the paper and rolled his eyes. "Fawkes, you know perfectly well what that is. I evaluated you and Eberts based on your performances." He promptly turned back to his paperwork.

Darien slammed a hand down on the paper Hobbes was reading, leaning across the desk so that he and Hobbes were practically nose-to-nose. "You basically gave us both A's."

"No, I gave you both A-minuses. Although I could demote yours to a B plus if you want."

"Hobbes, we didn't do anything right! We botched the job from start to finish."

Hobbes raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying you want an F?"

Darien frowned. "No, but..."

"Then don't argue with me!" Hobbes said in exasperation. "Look. You can't expect to do everything right while you're still in training. And as a general rule, people usually learn more from the mistakes they make than the times they do the job right."

Darien pondered this for a moment. "So you're saying you graded us based on the experience we gained, not by our win/loss record."

Hobbes nodded, reclining his chair so that it was only balancing on the back legs, and placed his feet up on his desk to compensate for the weight displacement. "That's right, partner. I think you and Eberts learned a lot in Tijuana." He placed his hands behind his head and smirked arrogantly. "But if you ever botch up a tailing job that badly again I'll pop a cap in your knee."

Darien shook his head, not pleased that Hobbes had chosen to remind him of that particular failure. "Point taken." He placed Hobbes' report on the desk and turned to walk out, a single piece of paper left in his hand.

Hobbes frowned. "Hey, whatcha got there?"

Darien glanced over at Hobbes and smirked, saying in an ambiguous tone, "Ahh, just a little surprise for the Official." He walked out of the door before Hobbes could inquire further and started down the hall toward the Official's office, grinning slyly.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_I'm a decent sort of guy. I mean, yeah, I used to be a thief, but even then I wasn't your average safe-crackin' kleptomaniac. But, whenever there's an opportunity to rub the Official's nose in it, that nice guy goes right out the window. Because in the words of Rita Mae Brown... 'I believe in a lively disrespect for most forms of authority.'_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The Official looked up irritably as Darien walked into his office and handed him a piece of paper. He glanced at it and frowned. "What the hell is this?" he barked at Darien.

Eberts leaned over the Official's shoulder to have a look and frowned. "Sir... it's a bill."

"A bill? For what?"

Eberts took the paper from the Official's hands and read it over quickly; his face became increasingly pink as he realized just what the bill was for. He coughed nervously and said, "Uh, it appears to be rent for space usage in Agent Fawkes' cranium. A flat rate for non-Quicksilver use and a higher rate when the Quicksilver is used with a thirty minute minimum, and accruing at fifteen-minute intervals thereafter."

The Official said nothing for a long time, his face gradually turning a deep shade of purple. Darien found this extremely satisfactory, not to mention humorous, but the only outward display of his amusement was the twinkle in his eye. "Is there a problem, sir?" Darien asked in a smooth tone. "I made sure to itemize the usage exactly as required."

Eberts read the paper over again and nodded to himself. "He did, sir. See, he broke it up into..." Eberts trailed off and looked nervously over at the Official as what appeared to be steam began to issue from below the obese man's collar. He cleared his throat and placed the bill down on the desk. "Shutting up, sir."

The Official sat in silence for a moment and then scowled up at Darien. "Fawkes, you already get a paycheck, although if you prefer I can substantially reduce the amount."

"Sir, I'm paid for the work I do at the Agency, but unless something has changed recently I am not being compensated for being the receptacle for a piece of government equipment," Darien said, his expression neutral, although the amusement had not dissipated from his eyes. "Last time I checked, sir, possession being nine-tenths of the law and all, as long as the gland is in my head I'm pretty sure that I'm in possession of it."

"That can be changed," the Official growled.

Darien snorted. "Oh, so you just wanna start over again? Risk losing your sponsor for, what, the fifth time in the past year?" He shook his head. "Can't see you making a mistake like that again." The flush began to drain away from the Official's face and neck. Darien's comments had been uncomfortably close to the mark.

"I'm sure your master bean-counter over there can squeeze the funds from some stone you haven't touched yet," Darien continued in a casual tone. He turned and walked over to the office door, but paused before he walked out of the room. "That means you can't take it from Hobbes' pay or the QS research," he clarified. Then he opened the office door to walk out. He had to pull back instead as Hobbes fell through the suddenly opened doorway and landed flat on the office floor.

Darien shook his head. "You just had to listen in, didn'cha?"

Hobbes pulled himself to his feet and shrugged. "Hey, I wasn't gonna miss something like this." He cocked his head to the left. "Say, if that bill thing actually works, you think you could slip me a couple of twenties? I'm running a little low on cash, what with the motel room and the blackjack table and the tuxedo rental..."

"What about those chips I slipped ya in the casino? Did you exchange 'em for money later?"

"Nope," Hobbes said sheepishly, "I left 'em in the jacket pocket of the tux by mistake."

Darien groaned and stepped out of the Official's office, closely followed by Hobbes, who continued to berate him with monetary questions as they walked off down the hall. The office door swung shut with a loud thud that reverberated through the air after them.

The Official heaved a deep sigh. Eberts glanced over at him, an unreadable expression on his face. "A barrel, sir?"

The Official nodded gravely. "And I have the feeling we're not over it yet."

 

 

The End

 


	3. I Don't Like Spiders & Snakes (season 3, episode 3)

Episode Three

**I Don't Like Spiders & Snakes**

By Dawnwind

 

 

Teaser

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Right there at the beginning of the Bible, God says to the serpent "Because you have done this, cursed are you above all cattle and above all wild animals, upon your belly you shall go." But frankly, I think the snake gets the raw end of the deal, sometimes. He didn't really do all that much except show Eve the apple, she didn't have to eat it. Now, you notice, Genesis doesn't say anything about spiders. In my opinion, that's because spiders are like con men; they spin a fine web, lookin' all pretty and then bite you in the butt when you least expect it. The snake was all out there, looking guilty, but a spider knows how to hide, deceiving its victims just before she strikes to kill…_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"To quote Webster's English Dictionary, a phobia is a persistent, illogical fear." The moderator, a tall Asian-American with a thick black braid hanging down his back explained. "Arachnophobia is one of the most prevalent of all phobias. All of you must suffer from some form of this fear, or you wouldn't be here." He paused, glancing around at the small group who had assembled to conquer their fear of spiders, "to conquer our worst fear is a feat as difficult as climbing Mt. Everest, but that is what we intend to do in this workshop."

Joe Chen droned on but Darien Fawkes had given up listening. Having been forced to waste a perfectly good day off at the insistence of both his partner, Bobby Hobbes, and his Keeper, he felt he was under no obligation to enjoy the situation. He'd been ordered to attend the desensitization therapy session aimed at helping those with arachnophobia come to terms with the irrationality of their fear more or less on pain or, if not death, then public humiliation. To Darien's way of thinking, everyone had things that bugged them; his just happened to  _be_  a bug. He simply did not, however, consider himself phobic. More that he harbored, as he put it to his partner, a healthy respect for the 'ookiness' of the arachnid line.

When his Keeper Claire had read about the desensitization therapy course being held on the University of California San Diego campus, she had signed him up, without his consent. So, here he was stuck inside a stifling classroom on a beautiful, blue-sky, perfect Southern Californian Saturday listening to half a dozen phobic individuals pour out their sob stories about why they too took exception to being in the same room with an eight-legged member of the arachnid family.

"Thank you, Marcella, for your honesty about such a frightening experience from your childhood." Joe Chen nodded earnestly, flipping his head so forcefully the long braid bounced over his shoulder. He flicked it back with a gesture that was obviously habit. "Now, Sylvia, do you think you can tell us anything about your phobia?"

"I just can't  **stand**  them," Sylvia, a wispy blonde of indeterminate middle age said forcefully, "those wiggly legs creeping up your arm in the night to burrow into your ear…"

Darien slid down in his chair to rest on his coccyx and settled his chin on his chest in the hopes of looking like he was listening intently, when in reality he was running through various escape scenarios, up to and including resorting to using his surgically implanted invisibility gland, regardless of his position mid-room. The urgency of the need to escape was mounting as his turn to relate the origin of his phobia approached. He hunched his shoulders up around his ears in the wan hope of drowning out Sylvia's admittedly creepy description of her close encounter of the spider kind. The woman was wasted in whatever career she made her living at. She'd be much better off giving Stephan King a run for his money in the spine-chilling department. Darien only hoped her nightmarish renditions wouldn't appear in his own dreams in the near future.

Since several other members of the groups were turning pale from Sylvia's overly enthusiastic rendition of spider fright, Joe Chen must have agreed with that assessment because the instructor hastily thanked her in mid-sentence, giving the floor over to Marie.

She was tiny, dark skinned, utterly beautiful. And began her tale in such a soft voice that most of the group had to lean forward to hear. Darien was already way over his scary story quota for the day and tuned her out completely. The time for escape was imminent: it was now or never. Unless an earthquake occurred in the next few minutes and swallowed him whole, he was up next.  _Once more into the breech_ , as Lord Nelson once said.

Besides, he didn't really have anything to say. He wasn't about to admit to a totally illogical fear of dubious origin. Not when the rest of the group clearly had just cause in developing theirs. Obviously, all of the others had to assume that he had some problems with eight-legged bugs, too, since he was already in the group and it was probably way too late to act like a reporter writing a story on phobia desensitization. But being in the group and talking about his…dislike of spiders were two different things. Either way, it was embarrassing. Six foot three, for God's sake, and scared of a tiny bug smaller than one of his fingers. Stupid.

Liam was the only other male in the group. A bespectacled, balding man with a bookish air and big capable hands, he had been the first to explain his arachnoid experience. He'd gone down the Amazon by raft on a research expedition into the rainforest and been bitten by not one but several large South American spiders, then survived their venom by sheer will power, or so it seemed, and been nursed back to health by his Native Indian guide. Now, he was finding it hard to continue his research because of an overpowering dread of being bitten again. Darien could sympathize. After something like that he would have changed careers.

Darien had no exciting heroics to compare with Liam's adventures. And he couldn't exactly relate the time he'd been fitted with a Quicksilver gland in the back of his head and then woken from a coma to be surrounded by half a dozen eight-legged devils who had frightened him into another spectrum, triggering the invisibility as the Quicksilver flowed for the first time. Not only would they not believe it, it was classified. However, it was way more exciting than the fact that a nest of tree spiders had freaked him out so badly as a kid that he'd fallen out of a tree and broken his arm rather than have one crawl over his hand. Now, that was embarrassing. Better not to have to tell it at all. Besides, this 'thing' about spiders wasn't really all that much of a problem anymore. Since Hobbes started going on about it so much, he'd really started working on getting it under control …heck, he'd watched nearly an hour of that gruesome Spielberg movie "Arachnophobia" on the late movie channel just the week before.

Getting up quietly while Marie was speaking of her desire to be able to sing such childish songs as 'Itsy, Bitsy Spider' to her daughter without breaking out in a cold sweat, he made his way to the back of the room. He was nearly home free when Joe's friendly voice called out, "Darien? Your turn next. Don't you want to contribute?"

"I just have to…you know." Gesturing vaguely out the door Fawkes smiled genially, hoping he'd get the hint. No chance to escape sight unseen now, not with every eye in the room directed at him. Liam looked particularly jealous, probably nervous about losing one third of the testosterone in the room

"Come back when you can." Joe said placidly, turning back to the group.

Pushing the door closed, Darien gave a sigh of relief, ready for some afternoon dozing on the beach. Walking down the corridor in the direction of the main exit, he was confronted with a short, balding man barring the door, sipping root beer from a can.

"Where do you think you're going, Fawkesy?" his partner challenged irritably.

"Bobby, man, didn't expect to see you here," Fawkes bluffed, going for innocent.

"No, huh?" Hobbes grinned. "Surprised you?"

"You did. Whattya want, Hobbes?" He whined, caught like a fly in a spider web.

"Just making sure you don't leave." Hobbes leaned against the wall, taking another swig from his soda, "Get your skinny little tucchus back in that room and finish that class." He straightened, coming up under Fawkes' chin, and poking a finger into his sternum, "And I wanna see a Polaroid of you with some nice brown barn spider sitting on your palm."

"But I gotta take a leak."

"Do it later," Hobbes snarled, "After you nearly cost us the Simmons bust just because of a couple of spiders…."

"They were Black Widows," Darien grumbled, slinking back to the classroom.

"So is that your excuse for that screw up in Tijuana, too? Huh?" Hobbes inquired cynically. "Those weren't even Black Widows, my friend. Hell, they weren't even brown ones."

"There's no such thing as a brown widow." Darien complained under his breath, slinking back into the classroom.

The whole day was just one white-knuckled thrill ride after another as the class progressed from looking at pictures of spiders and watching videos of spiders to getting up close and personal with a few of Wilber the Pig's friend Charlotte's offspring. Joe herded his charges down the hall to a room with wide glass windows and what seemed like hundreds of glass tanks full of spiders and other weird members of the insect world. He pulled out a box with some spiders inside, encouraging the group to come up and touch them. A few brave souls actually put out a tentative finger to touch the harmless little barn spiders inside.

Since Bobby had thrown down the challenge, Darien couldn't possibly refuse the dare, particularly since he knew his tenacious little partner would never let up on the harassment without proof that Fawkes had indeed gotten his fear under control. Of sorts. He waited in line to have his picture taken with the small brown spider, shuddering as Marie, an apparent convert to the charms of the eight-legged, encouraged her small visitor with cooed endearments. Darien was afraid he'd be sick before it was his turn to have the inoffensive little creature tipped out of its box and into his palm.

As long as he didn't look directly at the thing flexing its spindly legs on his flesh he was all right. In fact, he was rather proud of himself and smiled bravely while Joe Chen took 'graduation ' pictures. He looked pretty proud of himself, too, beaming at his latest batch of success stories.

Unfortunately, when the spider started to navigate over the uneven surface of Darien's palm, he could feel all his latent anxiety skyrocketing. Without warning the Quicksilver suddenly blossomed at the end of his fingers, inching its way towards the unfortunate arachnid. Tipping her hastily into the box Joe held before she froze into a spider-pop Darien tucked his fingerless hand into his pant's pocket, trying to look as nonchalant as possible under the circumstances. Nobody seemed to notice, and he still got the picture and his anti-defamation evidence to convince his partner that he had done his duty as Hobbes saw it.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

::Cue Theme Music::

**There once was a tale about a guy who could turn invisible. I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me. OK, so here's how it works: There's this stuff called 'Quicksilver' that can bend light. My brother and some scientists made it into a synthetic gland, and that's where I came in. See, I was facing life in prison and they were looking for a human experiment. So we made a deal; they put the gland in my brain, and I walk free. The operation was a success... but that's when everything started to go wrong.**

::Music Fade Out::

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act One

 

Working late in his lab, Peregrine Byrd smiled indulgently at the long, elegant snake coiled in the bottom of a glass tank. Jasmine was one of his favorites, with her beautiful sleek paleness. The fact that she was a Taipan, a snake so dangerous that she could easily kill a man with one swift bite, had never deterred his love for her. Cold-blooded she might be, but she was far truer to her nature than most people were. In fact, that was true of almost any creature in the animal kingdom. Byrd didn't care much for mammals, however. He studied the most feared, hated creatures on the planet, each of them deadly predators, with an intensity that bordered on obsessive.

That was why he was in the lab so late. He was never quite able to pull himself away when the other scientists left to go have a friendly drink, then on to their homes and families. These reptiles and spiders were his family, and he was at home and content whenever he was in their presence.

"Come over here, Jasmine." He cooed to the snake, picking her up with a special snake-handling hook, then prying open her jaw to reveal the wickedly sharp fangs that jutted out when her mouth was opened completely. With infinite care he milked a few precious drops of poisonous nectar from her venom sacks, watching as the cloudy fluid collected in a small test tube. Once Jasmine was back in her tank, he labeled the tube 'Taipan Venom # 10', and placed it into a rack filled with nine identical test tubes. He slid the whole rack into the refrigerator to keep until he began the most important part of his work in the morning.

His work for the day done, Peregrine reluctantly shed his lab coat, locking the laboratory door behind him. He wasn't really looking forward to the frozen dinner that awaited him in his tiny studio apartment, but there was the possibility of some amusement on Discovery channel in the form of a snake documentary. Perhaps if he stopped at the Seven-Eleven for a Slurpee, that would really put the icing on the cake.

With his mind on the treat, Peregrine never noticed the two dark forms lurking down the hall. He was barely out of the building before a rubber-gloved hand quickly pried the door of lab 17 open.

The two dark men, wearing stocking masks to distort their faces, moved through the lab, knowing just what they were after. They headed straight for the fridge and opened the door. The taller of the two men grinned, his expression smashed into a weird fright mask as he picked up a similar looking rack labeled 'Funnel Web Venom', to reveal the rack of snake venom. He lifted it up carefully, fitting both racks into a specially prepared briefcase, then signaled his accomplice to leave.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Nice picture, Fawkes." Alex Monroe said, rolling her eyes. She held the Polaroid of Darien holding the spider just long enough to seem polite then passed it along to Eberts.

All the top agents for the little-known and under-funded branch of the American government's clandestine spy shop known simply The Agency, were assembled in the office of Charles Borden, aka The Official. As usual, none of them were in any way thrilled to be there, especially since it was a Sunday, their normal day of rest and relaxation.

Darien had to admit he felt pretty smug. He'd conned his way through the spider class so Mr. Not-Afraid-of-a-Widdle-Spider Hobbes would just stop with all the jabs. Tipping back his wooden chair, Darien balanced on the two rear legs, using his own long legs as counter weight. Hobbes sat up primly in his matching chair, like an obsequious teacher's pet. Always angling for a raise was Bobby Hobbes.

Looking like she was auditioning for a part in the sixties spy fantasy "The Avengers", Alex Monroe lounged against the windowsill, her black leather clad legs crossed at the ankle to show off her Manolo Blannicks. She always managed to look both supercilious and bored at the same time.

"If we could get back to the matter at hand?" The Official intoned, "Before we were so rudely interrupted by Agent Fawkes coming in late." Darien freely admitted he'd been late. Hey, he'd negotiated with the Fat Man when he came back to the Agency that he would come in when he felt like it. Who expected a guy to stroll in at 8 A.M. on a Sunday?

Bobby Hobbes, smiled, showing all his teeth, like he hoped to get the chance to clean the erasers after school, said, "We're all waiting for our next assignments, sir."

"All in our places with bright shining faces." Fawkes snarked, "And you all wonder why I come in late?" That earned him a withering glance from Hobbes. What was with him the last few days? Hobbes was either kissing up to the Fat Man or biting Darien's head off.

Eberts handed the spider picture back to the taller agent, then picked up a pile of file folders. After passing them out in his usual efficient but nerdy style, he then opened his own copy, holding it up like a teacher beginning a lecture. "I direct your attention to the second page, gentlemen…" Alex arched an eyebrow with a loud huff, and Eberts hastily amended his wording, "and lady." He pointed to a picture of an ugly thick-bodied spider, then flipped the page over to show a large bear.

"The Department of Fish and Game has charged us with the job of uncovering who has been smuggling some very exotic animals into this country." Borden explained. "Our sources say some of it is bound for the Chinese Traditional Medicine trade, but there have been some rare, and deadly, animals brought in illegally that the Chinese apothecaries have no use for. We want to know who is using them and why."

"Hobbesnet will get on it right away, sir!" Hobbes promised, standing. "And may I say that…"

Whatever he planned to say was cut off by the arrival of Claire, Darien's Keeper, looking less than her usual calm, orderly self. "So sorry to intrude, sir." She apologized, "But I may have a case for you."

"We already have a case, Doctor," The Official frowned, tucking his roll of jowls under his chin so they rested on his collarbone.

"Well, might I add that this is somewhat pressing?" She interjected, pulling a blue elastic out of her lab coat pocket and corralling her mane of blond hair into a ponytail. "A friend of mine who works at UCSD called me this morning, quite distraught. He doesn't know where to turn."

"What does he do at UCSD, if I may ask, Doctor?" Eberts asked sweetly.

"Shut up, Eberts." The Fish shushed. "What does he want, Doctor?"

"His research was stolen this morning and he doesn't want to go to the local police due to the sensitive nature of…what was stolen."

"Sounds kinky." Darien perked up, listening more closely.

"Darien!" Claire admonished, "Peregrine does venom research. He's fascinated by the pharmaceutical potential of some rarer forms of snake and spider venom."

"Oh, no, I was just over there yesterday." He groaned, wrinkling his nose. "I've had enough of creepy crawlies that bite for one weekend. Hobbes, what you got on this smuggling ring?"

"Got to go surf the net, get the particulars, immerse ourselves in the subject." Hobbes mimed riding a surfboard, smiling up at his partner. Darien returned the grin with pleasure, glad to be back on his good side for the moment.

"Claire, what was stolen?" Alex asked in annoyance glancing over at Fawkes and Hobbes as if she'd like to get rid of a bad odor.

"The venom!" She blurted, "Some of it is extremely deadly. He's quite concerned lest it fall into the hands of someone who doesn't know how to deal with it. The anti-venom has to be given immediately if it gets into the bloodstream."

"Well, then, Agent Monroe, since you're so interested, I suggest you go over and interview this Per…?' The Fat Man looked over at Claire for the scientist's name.

"Dr. Peregrine Byrd."

"What, did his parents hate him?" Fawkes asked to no one in particular. "He probably has a sister named Dove."

"Robin." Hobbes supplied. "Good for either a boy or a girl."

"I used to go to school with a girl named Lark." Fawkes added, warming to the subject.

"Birdbrain," Monroe hissed.

"Fawkes, Hobbes, get to work!" The Official ordered, "Monroe, you too, it's time for my…"

"Conference call." Eberts finished smoothly. When the doctor and the three agents had left the room he pulled out a small portable television, using a remote to change to a local network.

The Official and Eberts never missed "The Powerpuff Girls." The cartoon featured three pastel superheroines who were the result of a botched laboratory experiment was so eerily similar to life around the Agency that both made it a point to keep up with the show.

Charlie Borden perked up as the episode began with the villain mastermind monkey, concocting something evil in his dome shaped lab. "Gotta love that Mojo Jo Jo," he chuckled.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Okay, Hobbesy, tell me again why you're certain we're going to find anything at all down here besides rats and other vermin?" Fawkes asked, carefully picking his way after the shorter man, trying to ignore the strong smell of uncollected garbage and other unmentionables that wafted from the alley they were passing. It was one of the seedier wharves in all of San Diego and Darien's skin twitched with the feeling that at any moment someone was going to jump out at them. Not that they wouldn't be ready for them; Hobbes had been drilling him in hand-to-hand combat lately and he'd managed to plug eyeballs on the paper cut out at the shooting range more than once. Well, twice to be exact. Hobbes still wasn't quite confident enough about his partner's shooting skills to let Darien carry a piece which under most circumstances was perfectly all right with him but here… he would have felt safer with an elephant gun under his arm.

Amazingly, Fawkes' usual bad luck didn't materialize, and they arrived at the address Hobbes had obtained in what was most likely not a completely legit manner without incident. After jimmying open the old fashioned lock in just under a minute, Fawkes swung open the door with a push of his foot. Hobbes had his Colt .45 handgun held high and steady, sweeping the entrance with a piercing gaze. Nothing happened, so Darien trailed the little tiger inside the place, looking around. It appeared to be an average warehouse. There were piles of boxes stacked in uneven rows, some covered with dust indicating they'd been here a while. Most had foreign writing on the side from every corner of the globe: Chinese, German, and some sort of Arabic.

"For your information, smarty pants," Hobbes poked at an open box which apparently only contained packing excelsior, "Hobbesnet has a web over the whole city, with fingers into countless pies. All I have to do is ask the right question and bang," he slammed his fist into the other palm for emphasis, "I've got the answer. Voila, we found our illegally smuggled goods."

"I hate to break this to you, oh-King-of-the-Internet, there aren't any animals here." Fawkes swept out his arms to take in the whole room, "Nary a one. Zilch. Zip." Not even a rat, to his surprise.

"They've been removed," Hobbes explained in his most pedantic, lecturing mode. "Look for clues to show where they were taken. Invoices, anything to give us a location."

"Like a map?" The taller agent pointed to one box that featured an illustration of the state of California on the label.

"You think this is a game, Fawkes?" Hobbes flared, jutting out his chin.

"No, I just think it's a waste of time when we don’t exactly know what we're supposed to be looking for." He retorted, feeling like he was walking on a tightrope with Hobbes. Ever since they'd returned from a spy school exercise in Tijuana, Hobbes had been practically cracking the whip over him, critically analyzing every move he made when they were on assignment.

"You heard Eberts." He selected a crate from the top of a stack and lifted it down for closer inspection, "Stuff the Chinese medicine men use, like ground up rhino horn and tiger penises."

"Peni?" Fawkes asked with a snort of laughter. Was there a plural for that word?

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Fawkes."

"And into the warehouse." Darien had to walk away, Hobbes was beginning to grate on his nerves. What had he done to deserve this?

"Hey, Inviso-boy, think you can maybe get a move on? Maybe check out a few crates?" Hobbes asked irritably, poking into a deep cardboard box. "Don't be afraid to get dirt on that shirt."

"Thought you liked orange, Bobby, yours gives you that pumpkiny look at Halloween." Darien stifled a sigh when that didn't get a reply and located a pile of crates on the other side of the building. He pried open the lid of a small wooden box with no identification on the top. Inside were several smaller wooden boxes, all neatly packed side by side without any space between them. He counted 10, five on top and another five below. All were nicely made little boxes that could have been sold as jewelry boxes in an Asian import store, with smooth beveled edges and tiny brass closures consisting of a pin through a ring. Picking one up, Fawkes slid the pin out, opening the box out of curiosity and promptly dropped it on the floor, his heartbeat jumping from 60 to 160 in the space of a nanosecond.

"Find something, Fawkes?" Hobbes asked, hearing the wooden box clatter loudly to the floor.

"It's a…" He'd taken the damned sensitization therapy for God's sake, he should have been calmer. "A really big spider."

"You had to drop it on the floor?" Hobbes rounded a pile of crates, squatting down to examine the now smashed-to-smithereens box and the large black hairy creature lurking in the rubble.

"Don't touch it, Hobbes, they bite."

"It's dead." He poked at the bulbous body with a pencil, but it didn't move. Probably being shipped in a nearly airtight wooden coffin, packed with nine of its buddies inside a crate and left for days without the proper food or water wasn't any better for a spider than it was for a human. Whoever had tried to smuggle it in hadn't read up on spider care very well.

"I'd say you found what we were looking for in spite of yourself." Hobbes peered at the original crate with the other nine little boxes still inside. "Carry that one back to the van. I'll put this one in an evidence bag."

 _Oh, thank you very much, great super agent_ , Darien snarked to himself. I get to tote and carry for you, huh?

Fawkes certainly hoped the rest of those spiders inside were dead too because there was no way on Earth he was going to look in and check. Finally, Darien solved the problem by nearly tripping over a dolly. He stowed the crate on the little handcart and started out with it.

"Wait a minute." Hobbes called. He'd found a pile of yellowish powder that the two agents bagged as well. Just before they were about to leave, both spied the remains of a snake. A shed snakeskin lay discarded in a dark corner, nearly out of sight behind a box. Hobbes poked at it with his trusty number two pencil.

"Musta been one big mother…" Darien knelt down to examine it more closely. "Woulda scared ol' Kevin into a different country…" He shook his head to free himself of the memories, good or bad of his brother and held out his hand for an evidence bag. Hobbes had already disappeared out of the warehouse with his little sack of yellow powder, leaving Fawkes with the crate full of spiders and the last of the snake.

There were days when Darien would have gladly given up the relative security of espionage work for his old stand by, second story jobs. One rarely encountered snakes or any other venomous animals while cracking a safe.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Claire! Thank you so much for coming on such short notice. I didn't know where else to turn, and since you work for the government, I thought, well, maybe you'd know someone who could…"

"Dr. Peregrine Byrd, this is Agent Alex Monroe." Claire skillfully cut off his onslaught of words with a formal introduction, "She's very good at what she does."

Alex smiled, quite touched by the sweet comment. She and Claire had been wary adversaries when they'd first met, but being the only women in the Agency outside of a few girls in the accounting department, they'd started getting to know one another better. It was paying off; she really thought they were beginning to bond in a let's-get-together-for-lunch kind of way. "Dr. Byrd, can you tell me exactly what was stolen and where it was the last time you saw it?"

"I was working late, well, I do most days and had just finished milking Jasmine…"

"Come again?" Alex shook her head. Did he just say what she thought he'd said?

"You have a cow here, too?" She waved a hand at the usual lab equipment and handful of glass aquariums containing insects and reptiles.

"No, no, Jasmine is a Taipan. A very small one, to be sure, but quite lethal. She's my constant companion when I work late. We're very simpatico, and I feel quite cheered by her presence. Snakes can be such friendly creatures when you really get to know them well…"

"I'm sure." Alex agreed, glancing over at Claire in time to see the blond woman hiding a grin behind her hand. "You milked her…?"

"Venom." Claire supplied, still trying not to giggle. "Forcing the snake's jaws open and releasing the venom from the sacks behind the fangs. It can be used for a number of important things."

"Such as?" Alex queried, wondering if she shouldn't have gone with Hobbes and Fawkes after all.

"Anti-venom for one. And then of course there's my research." Peregrine beamed, his fair, wispy hair falling over his long narrow forehead so he looked like an enthusiastic schoolboy. " Many spiders have the ability to paralyze their victims and preserve them alive until a later time without harming their nerve cells. This could have many applications as an anesthesia for surgery…"

"I thought we were talking about snakes." Alex groaned, about ready to run screaming from the room. She'd thought herself above squeamishness, but between Dr. Byrd's run-away mouth and the subject she was feeling a trifle nauseated.

"Spiders, snakes, I study them all. Well, all the really venomous ones. Last night, I placed Jasmine back into her terrarium and turned out the lights, leaving 10 vials of snake venom and 10 of spider venom to be ready for my experiments in the morning."

"And they were stolen!" Alex pounced on the one really relevant fact of the whole conversation. "And you don't want to go to the police?"

"No, my research is top secret. It has potential military applications and all that, you know."

"Yes, we do." Claire agreed, exchanging glances with Monroe. "Far better to keep it all in the family, so to speak. Where were the vials?"

"Right here." Peregrine pointed forlornly to the empty space in his otherwise crowded refrigerator. "They took everything. I left them there, labeled so anyone would know exactly what was inside and not tamper with deadly poisons, and locked the door behind me before I left."

"Did you see anyone suspicious?" Alex asked, looking around the lab.

"No one. The janitor was even on a different floor, because I waved goodbye to him when I went down the stairs. Always use the stairs, good for the heart muscle, you know."

"Yes." Alex plastered a smile on her face, "So, was all the venom from--uh--Jasmine?"

"No, no, Harry and David supplied some of their own." He waved a hand at two nasty looking snakes in another glass tank. "This type of venom is one of the most expensive compounds on the planet. A gram of purified venom costs over $1 million and it takes over a year to collect, distill, and purify before it can be dried to a powdered form. Of, course, I have insurance--but they'll never be able to replace the years of work I've put into just harvesting and cataloguing the many different protein structures in the venom."

"One million dollars?" Alex repeated in awe; she'd had no idea of the monetary value of something like that. "No wonder it was stolen. Is there a black market for that sort of thing?"

"Not to my knowledge." Claire mused, "But there are people who will deal in any commodity."

"So, you've been collecting this venom for…years?" Alex couldn't completely wrap her mind around the concept of such a narrow field of endeavor. She'd have gone stark raving mad doing such boring, repetitive work for so long. "Milking the snakes?"

"Yes, but then the spiders all contributed their share, as well; it wasn't all on poor Jasmine's small shoulders." He walked over to show off a huge, black spider with hairy legs spinning a long tube web in the corner of a glass-enclosed container. "That's an Australian Funnel Web, one of the deadliest spiders known to man. Not the deadliest in the world, of course; that would be the Brazilian Wandering spider. But the Funnel Web has incredibly sharp fangs that can pierce bone."

Now that she was officially sick to her stomach, Alex had to swallow forcefully to maintain any sort of professional decorum and look the part of an unruffled five-star-rated secret agent. "Really fascinating, Dr. Byrd. Is there anything else you can tell us about the break in?"

"My colleague, Dr. Mannheim, is an amateur sleuth and did a quick dusting for fingerprints. He fancies himself Sherlock Holmes, but he came up with only mine. I'd even asked the janitor not to clean my room the last few weeks because I didn't want him to accidentally knock over any stray vials of venom. So, since I often work alone, mine were the only ones he was able to identify. Many of my students wear latex. The thieves must have been wearing gloves."

"Do you have a security camera in here?"

"No, I dismantled it." He had the sense to look guilty there for a moment, "Couldn't stand to have anyone looking over my shoulder while I was working."

"No, wouldn't want that." Alex agreed caustically. "Well, I really would like to have a few of our own agents go over the room again, just in case Dr. Mannheim missed anything."

"I've got to get back to work. I've already been delayed all morning…and I have to procure more venom. It's all terribly time consuming. My research will be delayed by probably years if you can't recover the venom…"

Claire didn't have to look at Alex to know she was fuming, probably cursing meddling detective wannabes under her breath, so she stepped in, "I'm sure this all seems a waste of time when you want to move forward in your work, Peregrine, but please believe us when we say that this small amount of time lost will be time saved in finding the perpetrator of this crime."

"Yes, yes, of course. I suppose I could work in just a small corner of the lab, perhaps." Peregrine looked chagrined, then frantic to see Monroe touching an elaborate set up of Bunsen burners and connected glass tubing. "Don't touch that!"

"It looks like a still." Alex leveled him with her sternest glare.

"I assure you it is not. I use it to condense and purify the venom." Peregrine answered haughtily. "When exactly will your agents be here?"

"I'll call them now, we can be out of your hair in a few hours." Alex whipped out her cell phone, placing the call for a crime scene crew to come down ASAP. "Coming, Claire?"

"Just a mo, By the way, Peregrine, I don't want to sound pushy, but I've known you for years and never met any of your family. I wondered if you had any siblings?" Claire asked, suddenly overcome with curiosity after the silly discussion about avian names Bobby and Darien had parried about.

"Why, yes, I do. A sister named Delphinium. She's a marine biologist, why do you ask?"

"Just wondering. I thought I might have read something by another Dr. Byrd in a journal." Claire said sweetly, giving him a chaste peck on the cheek. "We'll find your venom for you, no worries."

"Delphinium?" Alex repeated as soon as they were completely out of the scientist's earshot. She giggled, then started laughing so hard tears were running down her cheeks. "Actually, Lark or Robin would be an improvement."

Joining in, Claire realized it had been ages since she'd shared a joke with a female friend and it felt good. She followed Alex out of the biology building with the realization that she was enjoying herself immensely. Getting to go out in the field with the talented female agent made her feel like part of a team, unlike going out with Bobby and Darien. She loved them both dearly, but they tended to close ranks when working, having a tendency towards constant running riffs of trivial minutiae unintelligible to anyone but themselves. Wanting to preserve the girlfriend bonding, she asked, "Alex, I've been thinking of trying to do a bit of toning up. Where do you work out?"

"I've found a really good place over on Palo Verde." Alex wiped her eyes, still erupting with the occasional giggle, "It's open 24 hours, and there are separate areas for men and women so you don't have oglers while you're doing squats."

"Sounds lovely, care if I tag along sometime?" Claire grinned.

"Well, now that the Official has me on a slave leash, my time isn't my own for the most part, so my workout schedule's not exactly firm. I never know when I'll have to be gone at a moment's notice." Alex smiled at the blond doctor, "But I'll give them a call and get you a guest pass so you can see how you like the place."

"Brilliant." Claire enthused.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The van, with Hobbes at the wheel, rounded the corner onto the street in front of the Harding building just moments after Monroe's flashy little black muscle car. Both parties met up at the front door together.

"Well, girls, did you discover anything more than a misplaced beaker in the mad scientist's lab?" Bobby teased.

"Can it, Hobbes." Monroe chided, "As a matter of fact we did. Whoever stole Dr. Byrd's venom did a pretty professional job: no fingerprints and although the door was forced, they obviously knew exactly what they were looking for. They didn't touch anything else in the room and some of his equipment looked very expensive."

Fawkes had to admit, in his professional cat burgling opinion, it did sound like a pretty good job. He'd always prided himself on leaving a house he'd robbed in as tidy condition as possible. That way, it could sometimes take a day or two before the owners noticed they'd been robbed. Apparently, Dr. Byrd was more observant than some people were.

"The stuff stolen was worth over $10 million." Alex added, leading the way down the hall.

"Whoa," Darien whistled in appreciation, "Not exactly small change."

"What have you got there, Bobby?" Claire asked, sliding a key card for her lab door into the reader. The metal door slid open silently. Even after two years Darien still expected to hear that little whoosh sound effect from the Classic Star Trek reruns.

"Fawkes found a crate fulla' dead spiders," Hobbes handed the baggie over to her, "After that desenisitivity class yesterday, he still managed to drop the thing on the floor. I'm wondering how much good that class really was." He nodded at the spider, "Kinda got smooshed but we thought you might be able to identify it."

"That's the one we just saw, isn't it?" Alex asked, looking at the desiccated little corpse.

Claire carefully emptied the carcass out into a petri dish, using a pair of tweezers to separate the legs and turn it on its back. "Yes, unless I miss my guess, this is a Funnel Web spider. You found this amongst the smuggled goods?"

"Packed in like sardines," Fawkes answered. "What's a Funnel Web spider?" Like he really wanted to know.

"Only one of the deadliest arachnids on the planet." Claire frowned, "Why would anyone want to bring one of these…"

"Ten of these." Darien corrected, distinctly creeped out. He'd been lugging around a box of death. That was going to haunt his dreams for a few months to come.

"Illegally into the country?" She shuddered.

"I've got a really bad feeling about this." Hobbes said, quoting just about every character in any Star Wars movie.

"Just catch a glimpse of the Death Star, Han Solo?" Darien quipped, not liking the look on his face at all.

"This may sound screwy as hell, but what if whoever tried to bring these in realized that they'd made a mistake, cause the things obviously didn't travel well…" Bobby hypothesized.

"Coulda been packed a little better." Fawkes interjected.

"So they just abandoned them, since they'd found a better, LIVE source." Bobby finished.

"Dr. Byrd's lab rats…" Alex paused, then amended her comment, "Lab spiders."

"That's a brilliant deduction, Bobby, but the question is, why?" Claire was still staring fixedly at the spider.

"Just exactly what would that thing do to you if it bit you?" Hobbes asked, ignoring her other question for the moment.

"Well…" Claire pinched her lips together, looking over at Darien with concern.

"Hey, I took the spider class, I can handle it," Fawkes insisted.

"Um, they secrete a very potent neurotoxin." She began slowly, twisting a long lock of fair hair into a tight knot. Not really liking the unconscious distress signals she was giving off, Darien was suddenly reminded of a song his elder brother Kevin used to torment him with sometime in the '70s. It was back when there still were records and only a couple of bucks could buy one of those small 45 singles, the little records with the big holes in them. The song, by a guy named Jim Stafford, was called "I don't like spiders and snakes." Kevin had played it over and over whenever their mother was at work. It had so terrified young Darien that he'd had to hide under the covers at night. Kevin's favorite spooky tale about a spider that could dig its way through linoleum had also figured into Darien's night frights and he'd lain awake imagining it was making its creepy crawly way down the hall to his bedroom, having left some cavernous hole in the kitchen floor. When Katherine Fawkes finally found out about the stuff Kevin was telling her younger son, she'd broken the record and grounded him for a week. Didn't much matter by then, Darien had memorized the song. The song had worked both ways, in the end, because after a harrowing experience at junior scientist's camp Kevin had developed a fear of snakes. Darien had loved singing the song at the unlikeliest of moments, like when Kevin was in the shower.

Just now the bouncy little tune was flitting through his brain as Claire began to describe the Funnel Web's deadly poison. "I don't like spiders and snakes and that ain't what it takes to love me like I wanna be loved by you…" repeated in an endless loop underscoring her words. Darien hunched his shoulders in protection mode, which contrasted sharply to Hobbes erect, correct posture.

"They have half-inch fangs that can pierce bone and kill a small animal quite quickly." Claire said with a worried breath. "The toxin makes it way through the blood and lymphatic system, increasing the blood pressure and damaging the heart and lung tissue. The bite is usually immediately painful and symptoms occur within a few short minutes. Death would come after a few hours unless anti-venom was administered quickly…"

"Oh, man." Darien said faintly, not wanting to hear any more. Already he could hear the little scratching feet of that linoleum-tunneling spider.

"Between that and the snake venom, which was enough to kill a considerable amount of people in ways I'd rather not hear right now," Alex stated firmly, "I think a return visit to the Byrd doctor is in order."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The venomous research labs were just a few doors down from the room in which Fawkes had spent Saturday morning getting to know a barn spider. Small world.

The crime scene team had already cleared out, leaving just a tall, thin professor with flyaway blond hair who was hunched over a glass tank, talking softly to a slender, coiled snake. Darien had never had any trouble with snakes--that had been his brother's Achilles heel--so he poked his head down next to the good doctor's to get a look.

"Goodness!" Peregrine jumped up suddenly, the snake hissing and striking with force against the side of the tank.

_Damn!_

That got Darien's attention fast and he backed away from the tank, letting Claire and Alex take over since they'd been the ones to question the scientist previously.

"I didn't hear you come in!" Peregrine exclaimed, "I was reassuring Jasmine. She really dislikes being milked, and I always have to give her a lot of TLC before hand."

"Great. We had a few more questions for you." Alex plowed right in, "These are my associates, Agent Robert Hobbes and Darien Fawkes."

She'd intentionally left the word 'agent' off in front of his name, Darien noticed, which rankled him more than he liked to admit. He'd just begun to think he was gaining more respect around the Agency after working his butt off training to be a better agent and then Alex dissed him in front of one of Claire's colleagues. The fact that Hobbes hadn't even bothered to correct her was painful.

"Peregrine, Darien found this while investigating a smuggling operation that has been bringing dangerous animals into this country." Claire held up the rebagged Funnel Web Spider, "Is this what I think it is?"

Expecting the milquetoast scientist to be intimidated by the four of them crowding into his space bearing deadly specimens, all four were pleasantly surprised to find he was fascinated by Hobbes' retelling of how the little corpse had been found. Peregrine used a magnifying glass to examine it closely. "Definitely a Funnel Web." He nodded enthusiastically, "But it's criminal what someone did to the poor thing."

"Why would someone bring them in, in such an inhumane way?" Hobbes asked, looking on studiously.

"I suspect that the perpetrator didn't realize that spiders need air, food, and water like every other creature on earth." Claire snorted, her temper up.

"Okay, but that begs a question." Fawkes put in his two cents worth. "We have to assume that these guys had specific reasons for wanting the snake and spider venom. Now, we're not just talkin' about some pusher on the street who's lookin' around for a new high. This took somebody with specific knowledge that your average Joe doesn't have. How come they didn't know how to pack the spiders?"

Hobbes looked over at him with eyebrows raised, with a snort, "Good question, Fawkes. Shows you can use that head for more than just growin' hair."

Somehow Darien found Hobbes' compliment more annoying than pleasing. It was like he was forever testing him, making sure he did everything just so. Only, Darien wasn't sure of the test questions, and hadn't been given any lesson plan to study in advance. Which left him without a clue as to what it was he was supposed to know or why Hobbes was being such a prick.

"The biologists…"

"Zoologists." Peregrine corrected with a hesitant smile.

"The zoologists." Alex repeated, tapping her black spike heel in a staccato rhythm, "On this end presumably knew what they were doing, but they hired some stupid wranglers to find and ship the cargo over." She crossed her arms as if that explained everything.

"We did find a snake skin," Fawkes volunteered, "so there must have been a snake inside it at one time. Something arrived alive."

"What sort of snake?" Peregrine asked with interest.

"Didn't look too closely." Hobbes said, "But the skin's in the van, I'll go get it for you." He hurried out as if glad to be going elsewhere. Darien had a sudden feeling of being stranded.

"Your research, Peregrine." Claire began, eyeing Jasmine slithering around the terrarium. "Are there other people working on the same thing, or is what you are doing exclusive?"

Giving a snort of laughter, Fawkes conjured up an image of Dr. Byrd standing on the street corner wearing knickers and a little cap, rolled newspapers under his arm, yelling "Get it while it's hot. Exclusive! Snake research venom stolen!"

"Fawkes." Alex hissed at him, "Pay attention."

"Well, I'm coordinating with several scientists across the world, by Internet, of course." Peregrine began, "Each of us are working on different aspects of the question of how to distill the properties of certain venoms for anesthetic use. It's incredibly fascinating and could lead to a whole new approach to anesthesia with fewer side effects than the ones we use now. Why, there are people who are so disturbed by the chemicals in anesthesia that just being put to sleep is more dangerous for them than having the actual surgery."

"Yes, but who else knows about YOUR research." Alex snapped, clearly at the end of her tolerance for the loquacious Dr. Byrd.

"I work alone, mostly, conferring by e-mail with some colleagues in Sydney, Kuala Lumpur and Amsterdam, but I'm by myself here most days." He spread his arms out to encompass the snake and spider cages.

"Do you have a lab assistant? Any grad students?" Claire specified.

"Of course, they come and go--right now there's Cynthia and Monprit--but they both went home for the weekend. I have to admit I like working on my own, used to it I suppose. Well, wait a mo…" He held up one finger, "I suppose you could count Dr. Rechenko."

"Who's Dr. Rechenko?" Fawkes asked, with interest.

"He's also doing venom research, here at the University-at one time I thought we could collaborate and perhaps publish jointly, but alas he has diverged from my expertise and…frankly my comfort zone. Lately he has been talking about selling his research for…" His pale blue eyes widened as if he'd been watching a horror movie, "profit."

"And that's a bad thing?" Alex asked.

"He's let his scientific ethics be subjugated by greed." Peregrine frowned in distaste, crossing his arms over his lab coat. "I can't abide the concept."

"So, essentially, although you dislike his methods, he's also working on the same project?" Alex continued to try and focus him on the subject at hand.

"Oh, no, his work centers on forcing the body's natural pain receptors to…" he grasped at words, unable to explain adequately. "If you'd pricked yourself with a pin, the receptors in the end of your finger would feel the pain, but only the few at the very end."

He touched his forefinger to Claire's, who nodded in understanding. "What Dr. Rechenko has been trying to do would cause even such a small injury to fire many, many more pain receptors--in essence, the entire body would feel the pain and wouldn't be able to shut down afterwards…excruciating, unending pain until he gives the antidote."

All three agents shared the same horrified expression. "Is that possible?" Darien squeaked in an unnecessarily high voice.

"In theory, it is." Claire's voice was pretty unsteady, too, and her face had taken on the color of bleached stone. "Peregrine, he's using venom research for this, as well? And you used to confer on some of your earlier experiments?"

"Yes, at first I thought they might be compatible--a sort of yin and yang of pain research if you will, but Dr. Rechenko was never welcoming or solicitous." He shook his head so blond wisps of hair fell over his eyes. "I gave up asking."

The suddenly sinister mood was broken by Hobbes' arrival. "Here's the snake skin!" He took one look at the nonplussed trio and added, "What did I miss?"

"A doozey, Hobbes. I'll give you the "TV Guide" description later." Alex barked, "Dr. Byrd, this has obvious implications for torture… Does the good Doctor work for someone else besides the University?"

Her words sent an icy cold path down Darien's spine that had nothing to do with Quicksilver. This Rechenko might work for any number of organizations he could name. Chrysalis, SWRB, there were way too many groups capable of real evil.

"Oh, dear me-torture…?" Byrd wrung his hands in distress, taking a deep breath, "I can't recall…did I know…?"

"C'mere." Hobbes grabbed his partner by the arm, leaving Dr. Byrd and Claire examining the discarded snakeskin on the table. Alex had an unreadable expression but was keeping her distance from the molt. Hobbes hauled Fawkes across the room for a quiet update. "What's the lowdown?"

Darien gave him a brief play by play, which left Hobbes with the same horrified expression and an angry glint in his eye. "I think we may have found our link to something nasty. See if you can slip into this Rechenko's lab and get some answers."

Going into a laboratory filled with spiders and poisons that could cause unending pain was dead last on Darien's list of things to do. "Hobbes," he tried to keep the annoying whine out of his voice, knowing complaining wouldn't sway the other man, "I don't know which lab is his."

"Figure it out, gland boy." He hissed, "Get out of here."

"S'cuse me." Fawkes pressed a hand to his belly, walking past Dr. Byrd and the women to the door. "Gotta get some fresh air."

"Of course, Darien." Claire said supportively, "He has a sensitive stomach."

Once outside the lab, he checked the hall for onlookers, but since it was Sunday most of the students were either in their dorms studying or hanging out with the frat brothers doing keggers so there wasn't a soul in sight. Fawkes extended one arm, watching the Quicksilver flow like freezing cold lava up his arm, extinguishing his hand and forearm from sight. Even after two years of using the gland, it was still amazing to watch his body disappear. He had just started to become comfortable and accept the ability, because without it he'd still be some second story man rotting away in prison. It had become part of Darien Fawkes, not that he wouldn't do just about anything to get the golf ball-sized gland out of his head. The thing had helped save lives--most notably Bobby and Claire's--and for that he was grateful. He knew he owed his life to the two of them. Their friendship had carried him through the first hard year when he'd either been depressed as hell with the state of his life or nearly insane from Quicksilver madness.

Finding Dr. Rechenko's lab wasn't hard. There were little white plastic name plaques beside each door, with the names spelled out in green. Not that he could see green in the Quicksilver spectrum, but he took note of the esthetics when he was visible again. In Quicksilver vision, everything was silvery gray.

Turning the doorknob with hesitation, Darien was surprised to find it yielded easily to his touch. He slipped inside to take a look around, not wanting to spend one minute longer inside the lab than necessary.

The layout of the room was pretty much the same as Dr. Byrd's, with similar equipment and lab animals. Fawkes turned his back to the cages of reptiles and arachnids, shuffling some papers on a cluttered desk to see if any names just jumped out at him. Just as the door started to open he saw an envelope with the words Rouche Pharmaceuticals printed in the return address corner. Good enough!

With his heart hammering double-time in his chest as Fawkes scooted past the black haired man coming in. The man frowned as Darien paused to take a good look at his face, shivering. The Quicksilver gave off a chilly aura like a freezer when left open. Taking one step back to reduce the amount of cold air, Fawkes memorized the scientist's perfectly coifed looks so he could identify him to Hobbes and skedaddled. Rechenko looked out into the hall with a confused expression then shut the door with a bang, muttering something about the air conditioner.

Down the hall, Hobbes, Claire and Alex were just making their good-byes to Dr. Byrd, so Darien headed for the van.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"According to the University's registry, that is Dr. Sergi Rechenko." Eberts looked up from his computer screen, showing an enlarged ID photo of the man Darien had seen in the lab. "He's originally from Georgia."

"The state or the country?" Hobbes asked.

"He was a Russian national--must have emigrated here after the dissolution of the Soviet states." Eberts tapped a few more keys to bring up more information beside the photograph. "According to the University's files, Dr. Sergi Rechenko is an expert in zoology, specializing in herpetology." Rechenko had the dark-complected, hawk nosed face of a classic movie villain.

"That haircut is so last year's GQ." Fawkes muttered, staring at the face on the screen.

"You should talk, Fawkes." Hobbes snarked.

"Did I say that out loud?" Fawkes asked blithely patting his own spiky coiffeur. "What about this Rouche Pharmaceuticals place? Does it say he's associated with them? Maybe he works there?"

"UCSD would frown on any of its professors going into the private sector, unless he was moonlighting." Eberts gave a little snort amazingly like Dr. Byrd had, obviously declaring anyone with those sorts of ethics below par.

Having been a thief for most of his life, Darien was not as particular. "Look up Rouche then, see if he's listed as an employee."

"I was getting to that, Darien." Eberts answered snippily. He worked his usual computer magic and in a matter of seconds had pulled up a glossy web site showing a studious looking scientist pouring some chemical from one beaker into another. The motto "The scientific technology of tomorrow here today", was written in bold type just under the masthead. "This is their home page, but it shouldn't be too hard to get into their private files and find listings of the employees. I already know Dr. Rechenko's social security number from the University's employee records."

A few taps on the keyboard and there it was in black and white on the screen, Sergi Rechenko was in fact an employee of Rouche Pharmaceuticals.

Armed with the address, Hobbes and Fawkes headed out again in Golda. "Heard that Anna Nicole Smith is getting' her own series, Hobbesy." Darien said, settling into his usual spot in the passenger seat. "Think she's gonna need a teleprompter in her own living room?"

His eyes on the road ahead of them, Hobbes didn't answer, which surprised his partner greatly. There wasn't the usual give and take between the two, and even though Darien threw a few on-liners at him, Hobbes didn't even attempt to lob any of them back. It wasn't until they were on the freeway, nearing the correct exit that Hobbes started talking, and then it was just a long, rambling lecture on planning how to approach an enemy. It was such basic stuff Darien could have quoted in his sleep, he'd heard it so often.

"Hobbes, are you going off your meds?" Fawkes asked in irritation.

"Got 'em in my pocket, smart ass." Bobby turned right into a wide driveway, pulling up beside a little guard tower. There wasn't anyone on duty so he drove past into a parking space.

A gold sign mounted on man-made rock in the middle of a man-made lagoon read 'Rouche Pharmaceuticals West'. Little jets of water plumed upwards all around the centerpiece, cascading down in weird spirals never conceived of in nature. The massive parking lot ringed a tall, monolith of a building, covered entirely in mirrored windows, which created the illusion that there wasn't an actual structure there at all. The mirrored walls reflected the surrounding cars, fountain and sky so that the building blended in with its environment almost too perfectly, like it was trying to hide its true nature.

Just like Dr. Rechenko was hiding his sideline, Darien mused. He was beginning to agree with Hobbes: the whole affair had a bad feeling about it.

The two agents walked up to the front door, the mirrored walls showing multiple reflections of a tall, lanky guy with a spiked hairdo in a blue gas station jacket, orange shirt and tan slacks and a shorter balding man in a green polo shirt paired with Khakis and a sports jacket. The taller man trudged stoop shouldered, weary of listening to his partner spout his version of the Agent's handbook.

"Fawkes, ya gotta knuckle under and plow straight through with an actual goal always foremost in your mind. All this whining and slacking off is a thing of the past, my friend." He glanced up at the younger man with an emphatic nod of his head. "Can't let any little personal fears trip you up. In the Marines we were trained to ignore bugs and flies crawling all over us. Makes you strong, proud…"

"A Marine." Fawkes finished. "Which, in case you haven't noticed, Hobbes, I'm not. I'm a thief."

"Ex-thief. You're on your way to becoming a top notch agent now."

"Then, what's this crap you've been dishin' out, huh, Hobbes? If you think I'm such a top-notch agent, how come you keep harpin' on every single thing I do? If I'm any kind of agent, it's cuz of you. You dragged me into this Agency in Mexico, so stop giving me all the grief," Darien complained. Technically, the Official dragged him into it, because of the gland in his brain but Hobbes had been the one beside him on that first nearly disastrous mission south of the border. Now, after two years and some actual training in espionage, Fawkes was beginning to like the work. Not that he'd admit it to Bobby right then, considering Hobbes' current holier-than-thou attitude. "I'll show you top notch. Just watch me work the room."

"Hotshot." Hobbes muttered when they stepped into a modernistic lobby as big as half a football field. A little Asian guy who appeared to be wasting away from ennui was propped up on his elbow at the circular reception desk. An engraved nameplate proclaimed him to be Ving Ngo. The place was as silent as a mausoleum and every footfall echoed loudly as they crossed the shiny broad expanse of black and white marble floor.

"KinIhelpyou?" Ngo slurred the phrase into one indecipherable word.

"I need to speak to Dr. Rechenko." Fawkes said without preamble.

"He's no' here."

Actually, he'd been betting on that. They'd come precisely when they had because Dr. Rechenko was still supposed to be at the University.

"Listen, bud, we're with the Department of Fish and Game, and we've had complaints about the way Rouche Pharmaceuticals treats their lab animals." Hobbes bluffed, muscling Fawkes aside and holding up his badge for the receptionist to see. Darien followed suit, flipping his open with practiced ease. And he really had practiced in front of the mirror. It never hurt to look like a professional.

"I'll have to call Dr. Jeffries." Ngo picked up the phone with importance, pointing across the lobby. "Wait over there." He indicated some square-sided leather chairs that looked about as comfortable as wooden boxes to sit on.

"Fawkes, ya can't just bluff your way to an objective, you gotta finesse the situation a little," Hobbes complained, squirming on the hard chair.

"Who the heck says I'm bluffing?" Fawkes remained standing. As Hobbes had so elegantly pointed out the day before his tuchus was pretty skinny and neither of the two remaining chairs looked very comfortable. "The guy admitted Rechenko works here."

Dr Jeffries responded to the phone call with alacrity, practically running out of the elevator towards the two agents, "I'm Lionel Jeffries. This is the first I've heard about any complaints."

"It's our job to follow up any allegations of animal abuse and improper treatment." As usual when on assignment, Hobbes' voice held the ring of undeniable authority, Darien thought , but remembering all the times in private when Bobby had been a lot less self-confident. "Usually these things turn out to be nothing, but we have to check, eh, Fawkes?"

"Can't be too careful," Fawkes agreed solemnly. "Can you show us the labs using animals? Our complaint specified…" Pretending to search his memory he proclaimed, "Small bugs, arachnids, snakes...?"

"Most of our research is top secret!" The small man protested, raking a hand through his Einsteinian white hair.

"We're government employees," Hobbes reminded, showing the man his badge with the impressive looking federal shield. "This is our job, let us do it and we'll be out of your hair in no time."

"I really should talk to the vice-president." Jeffries waffled,

"This is still only a complaint," Hobbes said in a friendly tone. "No harm done if it was just some disgruntled tech complaining cause his favorite snake didn't get the fat mouse. No need to involve management, right?" All the time he was speaking he was walking Jeffries closer to the elevators.

"I-I suppose not." Dr. Jeffries nodded hesitantly.

 _Way to go, Little Tiger_ , Darien gave him encouraging vibes,  _you're in rare form_   _today_. He reached over and casually punched the 'UP' button.

"What floor, Doctor?" Fawkes asked.

"Ten. That's where the research using smaller animals and insects is done."

"Oh, you use larger animals?" Hobbes asked conversationally.

"Yes, of course, pigs for insulin and heparin, sheep have respiratory tracts remarkably similar to humans, so we can intubate then to study how certain drugs affect the lungs and bronchioles…" He continued on all the way up, with Hobbes literally hanging on every word as if he understood even half of it.

Just as they made their way into the first lab, which was bustling with activity, Darien hesitated, looking around.

"Need something, partner?" Hobbes feigned innocence.

"The restroom?" It was always the easiest excuse, even though Hobbes made up all kinds of nasty explanations about his leaky plumbing, defective bladder and enlarged prostate.

"Oh, certainly, it's down that way, on the left." Jeffries pointed. Hobbes was already drawing him into the room, asking questions about which cages housed what animals and what experiments were being done.

Fawkes eased his way down the hall, glancing around. Seeing nobody, he let the Quicksilver flow and started snooping. There were three other labs on this floor besides the one where Hobbes and Jeffries were. There were also four offices, one alongside each lab, with a break room on one end of the hall and the aforementioned bathroom on the other end. None of the offices were conveniently labeled with names, so he had to poke his head into each. Luckily, none were locked or occupied. So much for security around Rouche laboratories. Nothing looked interesting, and Fawkes knew that the venom had to be kept in a refrigerator, which none of the offices sported.

He watched Hobbes and Jeffries cross the hall to a second lab, chatting about some experiment involving larvae, which made him glad he hadn't heard the whole conversation. After they'd passed, Darien trekked further down the hall to the two labs not in use, sliding into the first one and glancing around. It looked like it hadn't been used in some time. There was very little equipment out, no clutter of beakers or test tubes the way Claire's lab always looked. That was the first clue. Hiding something in plain sight where nobody would look, but not so obvious that everybody would know where it was. What better place than the lab no one was working in?

There were three racks containing vials of clear liquid in the refrigerator. All had sticky labels with hand written numbers down the side. Fawkes decided against taking one of the vials, as the theft would plainly be noticed, but he carefully picked up one of the glass tubes to examine it more closely. The label was pasted on poorly and underneath he could see there was another label. With only a little bit of prying he was able to pull up one corner enough to read UCSD.

All right. Fawkes gave himself a mental low-five. There was the proof. Well, some of it anyway. It didn't actually link Dr. Rechenko with the stolen venom, but it put them in the same building and that was enough for now.

Fawkes shook off the Quicksilver just inside the door of the adjoining bathroom, emerging at the same time as Hobbes and Dr. Jeffries did from lab number two. Hobbes was already assuring him that everything was copasetic as far as he was concerned, and he'd eliminate the complaint from the Fish and Game Department's records.

Just glad he hadn't had to make another tour of spider cages, Darien ambled after his partner back towards the elevators. He'd had enough of those creepy crawlies for one weekend, thank you very much.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Two

 

His fingers flying over the computer keys, Peregrine entered the small amount of data he'd been able to glean with the remaining spider venom. Not that this wasn't important stuff in its own right, but he had been looking forward to working with Jasmine's venom. He yearned to discover some new substance that would eliminate the pain surgery patients had to suffer. His own sister, Delphinium, had undergone several painful operations on her heart, and he hated seeing her in such agony afterwards. Why did something meant to help the patient have to be even more painful than the original defect?

Out in the hall, he could hear voices discussing the morning's robbery. After a moment, Sergi Rechenko stuck his head in the door, his handsome face alarmed.

"You were robbed, Perry?" he asked in surprise.

"Yes, this morning--men broke in here and stole vials of Jasmine's venom." Peregrine got up to point out the scene of the crime.

"All your years of work?" Rechenko shook his head, "I'm so sorry." After 10 years in the United States, his English was only slightly accented.

"I knew you'd understand the loss if no one else did. Where have you been all day?"

"In my lab, working diligently--you know I have been preparing to quit at the end of the semester."

"I feel so guilty about that. I keep thinking if I could have some how integrated our two fields of study you wouldn't be moving out." Peregrine flipped the errant lock of hair that always drooped over his eyes out of the way. "Won't this violate some of your work? Using it for financial gain."

Sergi smiled sadly, "Perry, you have been too long inside ivy-covered walls. You're naive. The big pharmaceutical companies will pay well for my research. I can have a new car, a new house. Can you afford any of that on a professor's pay?"

"No… I may be naive but I still have my pride," Peregrine answered huffily, his feelings hurt. "I think you're selling out."

"No one here was interested in the value of my work," Sergi retorted with more heat. "Think of what one could do with an understanding of how to control pain…it could change everything."

"You know information like that would only be used for truly evil purposes!" Peregrine felt something twist inside. He wasn't sure why, but he was suddenly afraid, of what he wasn't sure. He and Rechenko had never seen eye to eye on much of anything, but he was getting the distinct impression there was something more sinister going on here. "Sergi, what good could be gained from being able to create a source of inflicting unlimited pain?"

"Not much, unless there's a way to turn the pain receptors on and off like a light switch." Rechenko's smile was a little too wicked to be pleasant. "There are many countries who would welcome a drug that could do that. You know some of the toxins in that snake venom you lost could have been invaluable for my experiments."

Now Peregrine felt a chill in the perfectly climate controlled lab. "Tell me you don't know where that venom is?"

"How would I know such a thing?" Rechenko scoffed. "You said yourself it was stolen. My lab is right across the hall. If I had wanted some, I could have just borrowed it like a cup of sugar between friends."

"I get the feeling you haven't been my friend in a long time." Peregrine said coldly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a tremendous amount to do to recreate years of work and I have to start all over again in creating my stockpile of distilled venom. Please excuse me."

"Do whatever you like, Dr. Byrd." Rechenko lingered at the door, "The police won’t be investigating something like this with any interest. There aren’t any dead bodies."

"I haven't spoken to the police." Peregrine turned his back, surprised to see his hands shaking. He felt more frightened now than he had when he'd discovered the break in. Dread was clouding his mind that Rechenko was somehow involved.

"No? But there were people here earlier, Dr. Mannheim told me they were investigating. That he'd been able to help, as well."

"I have a friend who works for the Department of Fish and Game." Peregrine fiddled with his computer, hitting the button to save what he'd just written so he could put it on a disc. "They came over here-twice."

"What did you tell them?" Rechenko sounded interested.

"Nothing, only that I'd found the vials missing. Snake venom and spider, too."

"So, they are looking into the crime?"

"Claire assured me it was only a matter of time before it was found." Peregrine admitted, locating a zip disc in the jumble on his desk. "She has the top agents working on it."

"Then you'll have no trouble recovering the venom." Sergi soothed, his mouth tight. "I must get back to my work as well. I've got a great deal to do before the end of the semester."

Dr. Rechenko hurried to his car, instinct telling him he needed to get to Rouche as soon as possible. His mind was racing after the conversation with Perry.

Who could have stolen the valuable venom? He'd told his new employers only the week before that the snake they'd imported was sickly and would need medical care before it could be milked for its natural poisons. Was it possible that they could have so blatantly stolen Byrd's work? The implications were staggering and not only from a purely legal point of view. He'd longed to get his hands on Jasmine for the last few months. The snake was a veritable font of poisonous compounds that never seemed to run dry. What he could do with that stuff! It would cut his prep time in half to have it all ready for use.

Walking faster, Sergi smiled with grim purpose, he had every reason to believe that there was going to be a little gift waiting for him in his new lab. That it might actually be the work of a colleague's career really didn't concern him overmuch. After all, the man had no ambition, no drive to get anywhere in life. Success depended on clawing your way to the top and then driving away the competition while you made yourself indispensable. Then, when the world was beating its way to your doorstep, you charged admission. Life in a collapsing political and economic regime had taught him that. It was always those with the courage to do whatever it took who ended up rich. Peregrine Byrd was destined to spend all his life hunched over a table, milking snakes. He'd done it for years and could go on doing it, for all Sergi cared, as long as Rechenko's own research came to fulfillment. And with this latest boost to that work, there was every possibility that he could unlock the secrets of pain and hold the most primitive of all sensations in the palm of his hand. He'd gotten so close to finding the chemical codes that triggered pain receptors. He already knew how to turn them on and keep them firing long after the body should have acclimated to the pain. Now, he had to find a way to manipulate that ability. To think he could make one little compound that could cause that much agony. It was almost sexually stimulating.

Sliding the disk he'd forgotten he was holding into the zip drive, Peregrine backed up his work. After sitting in front of the screen, which had a photo montage of Jasmine as a screen saver, he brought up the file containing all the accumulated research he'd been working on for the last few years and made a decision.

Peregrine needed a friend to confide in, someone to alert to his fears. Someone who could perhaps assure him that he was over-reacting--or agree that he wasn't. He was suddenly convinced that the thieves wouldn't just stop at stealing his venom, they might conceivably come back for Jasmine, Harry, and David. And the computer files. He felt foolishly like some paranoid character in a spy thriller, but his gut told him he was doing the right thing.

There was something terrifying in the air. He almost wanted to flick his tongue out to identify the vile substance like Jasmine would do. Rechenko's attitude had been frightening: Sergi must know something or else why had he stayed so long, pestering Peregrine with questions? It was the longest conversation they'd ever had. Even in the early days when they'd occasionally worked side by side to test rodents' reactions to snake venom they'd rarely chatted much.

After ejecting the zip disk from the computer, he burned a CD, placing all the research he'd ever done over the years for the University on one small circle of plastic. Then, with an almost agonized sob, he hit the delete key, erasing any trace of five years of research from the terminal.

Logging onto the Internet, Peregrine opened his e-mail and sent a carefully worded message to the only other person on the planet he thought would know what he was talking about and be able to do anything to help him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Hobbes, man, what gives?" Fawkes asked, trailing his partner down the halls of the Agency. "What the heck is eating you? Give me a clue."

"I've told you before, Fawkes, your attitude stinks." Hobbes' face was surprisingly harsh, not at all the guy Darien had been trading wisecracks with for over two years. This stranger was a by-the-book Marine, critical and distant. "If you want to get ahead in life, you gotta walk the straight and narrow, get with the program and stop actin' like this is all some sort of game."

"You never liked 'Spy versus Spy', Bobby?" Darien taunted, his hackles rising. There was no earthly reason for the way Hobbes was treating him. He'd taken the damned desensitization class, and was still following Hobbes around like some half assed errand boy when he could be doing most of this stuff on his own. "It was always my favorite page in 'Mad' magazine. And, well, maybe I'm not your definition of James Bond, but I can get this job done without you harpin' on me all the time. I'm not the new kid on the block, any more, okay? Give me some credit, here. I know what I'm doing, even if that doesn't sit well with you,  **my friend,"** Darien threw Hobbes' own catch phrase back in his face, "So screw you, Hobbes."

"What are you two arguing about?" The Official swung open his door hard enough to rattle the glass in the frame. "Get in here and stop acting like siblings fighting over the TV."

"Just having a friendly disagreement about the case," Hobbes covered smoothly, taking his favorite chair in the middle of the room. Sitting there always made Fawkes feel like a prisoner in a war movie being questioned by the Gestapo. "Inviso-boy did his trick and found the stolen venom at a place called Rouche Pharmaceuticals."

 _His trick?_ That was low. Fawkes glanced over at Bobby, not sure whether to glare or feel hurt, but he was completely ignored.

"Eberts, what do we know about Rouche Pharmaceuticals?" The Fat Man asked.

As always, the Official's brown-noser had done his homework and printed it out with a lovely bound cover. "I did some investigating when Agent Hobbes informed me that they had tracked the venom to the San Diego branch. Rouche Pharmaceuticals West is just a small part of a nation-wide conglomerate that develops and manufactures drugs. In fact, one of the antidepressants that Robert uses is…"

"Shut up, Eee-berts." Hobbes snapped.

"They are a multi-million dollar corporation, but there have been rumors that their methods are not always on the up and up."

"They tryin' to bilk the country into buyin' snake oil?" Darien grinned.

"Nothing quite so obvious, Darien. Rouche has been implicated in a few…less than ethical experiments involving gene manipulation and human fetuses." Eberts paused, an expression of disgust on his vaguely cherubic face. "From what you told me about Dr. Rechenko, I wouldn't be surprised that he would hook up with Rouche. His research sounds like exactly the kind of thing they'd sanction."

"Crap." Hobbes muttered, which just about summed things up for everyone in the room. "Didn't the US government ban usin' fetuses and stem cell research and stuff like that?"

"There are instances where the usage of fetal cells has become an important adjunct to many medical treatments," The Official said unctuously, "but that's not our concern. We need to know if Rouche is behind the smuggling and what exactly they plan to do with the venom they have in their possession."

"If Rechenko is working on his latest poison project, I don't wanna be within 10 miles of him." Darien proclaimed, "That unending pain thing…."

"Buck up, Fawkes. You're on this case, finish it." Charlie Borden glared at him. Darien pouted, now he was getting it from all sides!

"We're on Rechenko's trail now, sir," Hobbes assured. "You can count on that."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"I found the venom in the refrigerator." Sergi Rechenko stated flatly, eyeing his superior. He stood squarely in front of the man's desk, resisting the urge to stand at parade rest as he'd been taught while in the Georgian Army. "Where exactly did it come from?"

"We were able to obtain ample quantities for your experiments, Doctor, that's all you need to know, isn't it?" Lionel Jeffries showed a completely different side than the addled scientist persona he'd shown to the pair of spurious Fish and Game agents who had wasted much of his afternoon. "And you'd better get to work as soon as possible; there've already been federal agents nosing around here."

"How did they connect me with Rouche?"

"I have no idea how. Your name was never mentioned to me. All they said was that there'd been complaints about the way lab animals were treated here, which was an obvious cover story to inspect our facilities. I showed them the medical trials labs and they went away happy."

"Were they from the Department of Fish and Game?" Sergi asked, anger rising in his gullet.

"As a matter of fact, yes." Jeffries nodded, "What do you know about them?"

"There were vials of snake and spider venom, purified and ready for use, stolen from the University. My colleague, Dr. Byrd, called them in to investigate the crime."

"That puts a different spin on the matter." Jeffries frowned, "You'll just have to work all that much faster to get the product ready for trials then, won't you?"

"Where did you get the venom in my lab?" Rechenko persisted.

"None of your concern, Doctor. Just do as you promised and there'll be a bonus--a substantial one if you can come up with a pain-trigger drug by the end of this fiscal year."

"That's impossible!" Rechenko protested, slamming a hand down on the director's desk. "I have many months of research before there'll even be a prototype. Then I need test subjects--human ones are preferable. The nervous systems of most animals just don't equate."

"I realize that. The California penal system is full of death row inmates who are perfect for our needs. Just get to work. Have you completely resigned from UCSD yet?"

"I have the papers filled out, and I was planning on giving notice tomorrow-Monday."

"Excellent. Then I'll expect you to be starting expeditiously." Jeffries picked up the papers he'd been working on before Rechenko interrupted him, the gesture an obvious dismissal.

Turning to leave, Rechenko was consumed with conflicting emotions. He was excited to be finally given free reign to pursue his current research, but on the other hand, he chaffed at Jeffries--and Rouche's--expectations. How could they expect a drug by the end of the fiscal year? From what Jeffries had not told him, he knew for sure that they had stolen the venom from Byrd. Not that he'd admit that to the little geek. It was just unnerving to know that Rouche considered his project so crucial that they'd steal for him.

It gave him a slightly heady feeling of power. Yes, this was where he was meant to be. Even if he couldn't finish under the deadline, he had no doubt they'd be more than pleased with the results when he  _did_  perfect a completely controllable pain-trigger drug.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Claire sauntered confidently down the hall of the Harding Building, swiping her key card into the electronic reader to open the door of her lab. She was brimming with energy this morning after a workout at Alex's gym. Unfortunately, although the two women had planned to go together, Alex had been called on to investigate another angle on the venom smuggling case. She'd boarded a plane to Australia only that morning to find out who exactly had sent the unfortunate creatures that had arrived dead.

What with all the excitement about Peregrine's break-in on Sunday, Claire had never gotten around to analyzing everything that Hobbes and Darien had brought back with them from the docks. It was a refreshing change to be directly active in a case. Now that Darien no longer needed frequent injections of counteragent, she had hours of extra time on her hands. There had been days recently that she'd found herself at loose ends to a certain extent as she waited for some of her experiments to run their course. Without the constant chore of making up more counteragent or waiting with baited breath, knowing Darien was coming back from an assignment red eyed and psychotic, there were actually periods when she had a moment or two to herself. She reminded herself to leave early so that she could catch the little French film playing at the art theater not far from her home. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been to a film and found herself looking forward to reclaiming a small measure of her personal life.

Still, while at work, she wanted to be considered as much an investigative agent as the rest of the Agency's personnel, but everyone still tended to consign her to the lab. It was good to be an integral part of things for a change. Though Darien still required periodic blood tests and she was still going to insist on the monthly physicals, there was simply no reason to deny herself the intellectual challenges that came with criminal investigations any more than there was for her to abandon her scientific endeavors. After all, no one knew what the long-term effects of the gland would be on his body, even without the threat of Quicksilver Madness. He'd carried the gland in his brain far longer than Simon Cole or even Arnaud. He was unique, and Claire wanted to insure that he stayed healthy and productive for the rest of his natural life. If that meant they were stuck with each other, so be it. She had become close to everyone at the Agency and considered Darien a good friend. Although she was still concerned about the slight difficulties he'd had with his vision on and off, by and large, his health was satisfyingly robust. And his eyesight hadn't bothered him lately, for which she was glad, though it still bore watching.

Before figuratively rolling up her sleeves and getting to the hard work of the day, she switched on her back-up computer, connecting to the Internet to access her e-mail. She'd been hoping for a missive from one of her far-flung relatives. Although they weren't the closest of families, the ease of e-mail had jump-started their communication and she'd enjoyed reconnecting with family. The friendly little mail-truck blinking on the screen assured her she did indeed have mail and she hit receive with a smile. There was a couple of on-line jokes from an old college acquaintance which she'd read the week before from another friend and an invitation for her to become a member of the gym she'd visited this morning, with the come on of two months for the price of one. Shouldn't have given them my e-mail address--she thought, hitting the delete key. The last virtual envelope to pop up on the screen was from Peregrine, but there was no subject line. Intrigued, she opened up the body of the message, reading with a perplexed frown. What he'd written made little sense.

 **"Be advised that Jasmine is the keeper of my heart. If anything should happen to me, Claire, take care of her. Since the robbery, nothing is safe anymore, and I fear I can no longer continue with what needs to be done. Peregrine** "

Her heart pounding wildly against her breastbone, Claire lunged for her phone. Had the break in so unnerved him he was thinking of suicide? Where would he be? At his home or the University?

Jasmine is the keeper of my heart.

The University.

Her hand trembled as she dialed, wondering if she should just drive down. What could he have done? What had driven him to this?

"Zoology Department, UCSD." A very young voice answered.

"Is Dr. Byrd in please?" Claire asked politely.

"Oh, my god." The girl's voice broke, a half sob gulped back loudly into the receiver.

"What's happened?" Claire demanded, her heart about to break free of her chest. It already hurt, and she hadn't even heard the news yet.

"D-dr. Byrd was killed this morning." The girl shuddered another sob, clearly barely able to speak.

"How? When?"

"He had parked in the employee lot and a c-car ran him down. Hit and run!" She wailed, her sobs harsh and gut wrenching.

"I'm devastated. Are you…" Claire racked her brain trying to remember what Peregrine had said his grad student's name was, "Cynthia?"

"Y-yes, how did you know?" Cynthia gulped, getting herself under control.

"I spoke with Peregrine this weekend about the robbery in his lab. Did you hear about that?"

"Of course, it's all over campus." Her voice still quavered now and then, but the tears had stopped. "It's a big mystery."

"I work for the Department of Fish and Game. We are actively investigating the crime and may have found some leads, but this…it's horrible. I can't conceive of anyone killing poor Peregrine. Did anyone see it? Get the license plate number?"

"I th-think so." Cynthia paused, "But it happened really early, there weren't many people on campus. Monprit had gone into the lab to open up. W-we expected to start on the next phase of experiments on the snake venom this morning. He heard the car's acceleration because the window was open, but I don't think he saw anything."

"Cynthia, as soon as I get in contact with my colleagues, we'll be right down. Don't leave, we'll want to talk to you and Monprit."

"He's pretty broken up." She sighed, "He was here on a scholarship visa from India and is afraid he'll have to leave now."

"I'll make sure that doesn't happen," Claire assured, not at all certain how she'd go about doing that, but determined to try. "Just stay right there, I'm on my way."

As if in answer to her prayers, Bobby and Darien were standing and arguing idly in the hall outside the Official's office when Claire up the stairwell, bursting into the hall. Her words tumbling over themselves in a rush, she tried to explain what had happened while pulling Hobbes by the sleeve to drag him out the door to the parking lot.

"Claire! Slow down." Hobbes dug in his heels, resisting the forward momentum.

Fawkes just about plowed into the both of them, only managing to slow his trajectory by grabbing hold of the Official's doorknob. Luckily the door was locked and no one was inside room 202 yet.

"Let me get this straight. Dr. Byrd is dead?" Bobby put up a hand like a traffic cop holding up a line of cars.

Feeling suddenly close to tears, Claire couldn’t speak, but nodded pathetically.

"Who'd want to kill a harmless geek like him?" Fawkes asked, shoving one foot firmly into his mouth. Claire stared at him, her eyes swimming with tears. "No offense, Claire, but despite his snake poison, he wasn't exactly threatening the competition."

"You hit the nail on the head, partner," Bobby said, staring at him, too, "Maybe indirectly, but square on all the same."

"You mean Rouche? He wasn't working on that pain drug thing." Darien responded.

"No, but Dr. Rechenko was, and maybe he was afraid ol' Peregrine would figure out who stole the venom." Hobbes surmised, "C'mon, let's get over to the University."

"Can you positively link Rouche to the crime?" Claire sniffed daintily until Hobbes handed her his handkerchief. Darien had seen him carry one before, and wondered if Hobbes just bought it in case Claire ever needed a hanky. Hobbes had it bad for her, but she always played it so cool and British it was difficult for Darien to know if the feelings were reciprocal. With all Hobbes' claims he didn't pick from the company's orchard, they'd probably never get together, anyway.

"Those vials in the Rouche lab had University stickers covered over by new hand-numbered ones." Fawkes reported.

"But why would they steal them?" Claire asked, playing devil's advocate. She gave a final swipe of the handkerchief across her eyes and folded it into a square handing it back to Hobbes. He looked slightly surprised, but stuffed it into his jacket pocket. "They're a huge company, can't they import them? They smuggled the first lot, didn’t they?"

"We talked to the Official last night," Hobbes nodded. Now he was the one urging them along. Claire and Fawkes followed after him like a couple of ducklings after their papa to the van and piled in. Darien gave Claire his usual spot in the passenger seat and squeezed into the back of the van with the debris. There was always unidentifiable stuff back there no matter how often Hobbes cleaned up.

"We think that Rouche musta used some stupid ass suppliers back in Australia and got royally screwed." Hobbes steered Golda into morning traffic. As usual, San Diego was a swamp of cars, and it would take a while to get across town to the campus. "So when the stuff showed up here all dried up and worthless, they had to scramble in a hurry. Probably already have people waitin' for that crap Rechenko wants to make up."

"A torture drug, that's all it could be." Claire nodded, "There are guerrillas and terrorists who would love to have something like that fall into their hands. We have to stop them." She gasped, "But Alex went to Australia this morning: she called me. D'you think she'll be safe?"

"Monroe can take care of herself, she's tough," Hobbes said with surprising emotion. The two of them never got along very well, both constantly trying to one up the other and prove who was best, but Hobbes had to admit she was a competent, well trained agent.

While Darien had nothing against the beautiful operative, the number one agent in his book was still Bobby Hobbes. That was why the current state of affairs between them was so unnerving. Hobbes might be a little on the flaky side but there was no one Fawkes would rather have watching his back. The problem was, lately Hobbes had been acting as if he didn't want to do it anymore and that scared the hell out of Darien.

"What did you find in the dockside warehouse besides spiders and snake molts?" Claire asked, flipping her long hair out of her face. She probed around in her pocket to locate an elastic and secured it back, out of the wind coming through the open van window. "I haven't yet had a chance to analyze the other things you brought me."

"We didn't quite know what all of it was." Darien shrugged, "In fact," he reached down to pick up a small baggie of yellow powder off the floor of the vehicle that had escaped notice when they'd unloaded everything. "Here's something else we found. Sorry we didn't get it to you with the rest of the stuff."

"Looks like Kool-Aid to me." Hobbes commented. "Found it sprinkled around one of the boxes but there was nothing in the crate."

"So they obviously had someone go and collect what was of use and left the rest behind. Isn't that a bit careless?" Claire squinted at the baggie, trying to decipher to its contents.

"Only if they got caught." Hobbes pulled onto the freeway and Golda sped up, rattling like an old jalopy in a Chaplin movie. By the time they hit 65, Hobbes felt like the fillings were shaking loose in his teeth, "If nobody can trace the goods back to Rouche, and so far nobody can, it's just a pile of crap takin' up space. We end up with egg on our faces cause other countries wanna know how we keep lettin' this stuff slip through our borders, and there're animal rights groups all up in arms cause a buncha poisonous spiders and rare…I dunno…toads died on U.S. soil. Rouche doesn't look bad, just the Government. Namely, the Department of Fish and Game."

"What made you say toads, Bobby?" Claire jerked her head up in surprise.

"There are poisonous toads, aren't there? They can give you warts, that I know." He punctuated the end of the sentence with a stiff fingered jab at the windshield. The guy trying to cut in front of him misinterpreted the gesture and flipped the bird before squeezing his Lexus in front of Golda. "Moron," Hobbes muttered.

"There are poisonous frogs, as well," Claire corrected gently. "The warts thing is a myth. The thing is, all these things can be deadly. What would Rouche want with such a collection of poisonous animals, unless it was for the reasons Peregrine feared? No one else in their right mind would want to have anything to do with creatures like that."

"The SWRB would," Darien said quietly.

"What he said." Hobbes agreed, looking sick. The San Diego division of the Special Weapons Research Branch had been destroyed when Augustin Gaither had blown it to smithereens. The head of the twisted sisters society, known only as Mr. No-Name was supposed to be dead, but without a name or prints, it had been impossible to correctly identify him. No one knew who might have escaped the inferno that night. Had the SWRB anything to do with this? It was terrifying to contemplate. Maybe Rouche was just pure nastiness on its own. Hitler's minions hadn't cornered the market on inhumanity and cruelty, and the same could be said for the SWRB. Maybe the Agency had just uncovered another player in the game of torture for sale.

They retraced their steps down what were becoming very familiar halls to Dr. Byrd's office. A Japanese girl who was probably only about five feet tall and a dark skinned guy of perhaps East Indian origin were sitting at the lab table, talking quietly when Claire knocked on the frame of the open door.

"Oh, please come in." The girl had red-rimmed eyes and her long black hair was pinned into a bird's nest on top of her head with a yellow number two pencil.

"You must be Cynthia." Claire gave her a gentle hug., "And Monprit?" she addressed the guy.

Bobby and Darien shook hands politely with both of them, murmuring the usual platitudes expressed when someone dies. Darien had never been able to get through these sorts of scenes without flashing to the days after his mother's death. At the time he'd felt like curling up and dying, too. Too angry and embittered to be comforted he'd wanted to punch somebody every time a well-meaning neighbor had said, "She's gone to heaven, Darien."

Punching whoever had perpetrated the crime didn't seem like such a bad idea standing in that room with the teary grad students. Peregrine Byrd had been a trifle eccentric, but he hadn't deserved to be run down by a car.

"Nice to meet you, Dr. Keeply," Monprit said dejectedly, "Cyn told me you'll try to keep my student visa from being revoked, but I don't know how. Without my faculty advisor, Dr. Byrd, my thesis is on hold and I don't know what the future holds."

"You two are the ones who worked with Peregrine." Claire said with conviction, "You'll be able to keep his research alive. You can continue it."

"But how?" Cynthia looked like she'd start crying again, "Neither of us even has a masters degree, much less a Ph.D. how can we keep the research going?"

"I have a Ph.D." Claire announced, "actually, more than one. And I vow to keep Peregrine's work alive. Darien and Bobby already have a lead on where the stolen venom might be."

"Really?" Monprit perked up at this, running a hand through his unruly black hair.

Hobbes was afraid she might reveal the location, sending crazed grad students running through the labs at Rouche, but the arrival of another professor startled them when he stuck his head in the door. Darien recognized the well-defined profile in an instant. It was Dr. Rechenko.

"Excuse me, but I was passing by and I thought I heard you mention knowing where Perry's stolen venom was?" He swiveled his head, taking in the entire group, his body language belligerent and aggressive but his face showing a friendlier, interested party. Like two sides of a coin.

"And you are?" Hobbes flipped out his departmental badge, standing cockily in front of the taller man.

"Dr. Sergi Rechenko." The taller man glanced at the name on the badge, "Agent Robert Hobbes of the Department of Fish and Game. Are you investigating the robbery?"

"Burglary." Darien corrected.

"I am not interested in playing word games, Agent…?"

"Fawkes." He held up his badge, using his height to an advantage. Rechenko was a scant inch shorter. "Neither am I, robbery usually means there was someone with a gun, holding you up. This lab was burgled. Unless you know something we don't?"

"Only what Perry told me." Rechenko bristled, directing his comments back at Hobbes. "I talked to him yesterday shortly before I left the campus, now I return to find he was killed. It is a travesty. Have you found the guilty parties?"

"We only just got here ourselves," Hobbes said loftily. "Still sifting through clues. For instance, where were you this morning at…?" He glanced over at Monprit for confirmation of the time.

"Six thirty." Monprit supplied, looking frightened.

"I was at my gym, a fact that can be substantiated by the personnel there," Rechenko answered with an outraged expression. It was like he'd put on a mask, all surface. Seeing Rechenko face to face and in living color for the first time, Darien could easily believe him capable of being some sort of scientific con artist. He had the smarmy insincerity of an old-fashioned snake oil salesman. "Surely you can't suspect one of his colleagues! That's outrageous."

"That's where I've seen you." Claire smiled sweetly, 'good cop' to Hobbes' bad one. "You were at the gym on Palo Verde this morning. I was coming in when you left." She stuck out a firm hand, "Dr. Claire Keeply. I was a correspondent of Dr. Byrd's."

"He spoke of you yesterday." Sergi took her hand in both of his, holding it like a Claire sandwich. "What is your particular field of study? Are you a venemologist like the rest of us nerds around here?"

"Biochemistry is one of my passions." Claire slipped her hand free, "But I have an eclectic body of work. A little of everything, the Department of Fish and Game keeps me quite busy with any number of assignments."

"I'm sure." He gave a little gracious bow. Fawkes faded into the background, watching without anything to contribute to the conversation. His knowledge of biochemistry was pretty limited to what he'd gleaned on how the gland affected his own biochemistry from Kevin, Arnaud and Claire. As for spiders and snakes, the less he knew about their venom, the better.

Claire perched on the edge of a tall stool. "When Peregrine spoke of you he said you'd worked together at one time but had parted company when your research interests changed." She said, watching Cynthia feeding the caged critters as if no one else was in the room. "Aren't you both involved in the mechanics of pain?"

"I see he filled your head with his erroneous assumptions on the nature of my studies." Rechenko said dismissively. "He'd conjured up all sorts of bizarre ideas."

"Bizarre in what way?" Bobby pushed, his eyebrows raised.

"I theorized that pain could be switched on and off, like a light can be, but we need to find the precise trigger to do so."

"A pain trigger?" Darien spoke up from where he was lounging against the sinks. It was the farthest place in the room from the bank of snakes and spiders. "Isn't that kind of dangerous? What good would it be?"

"Perry envisioned all sorts of cruel uses for my research which I assure you were his own creations and not mine." Rechenko shook his head a little sadly, "That was one of the reasons I discontinued our work together. I began to worry that he was perhaps delusional--even hallucinating."

"He wasn't crazy!" Cynthia spat, her almond eyes filling with fresh tears. She clutched a container of bugs, squishing the sides of the cardboard until crickets began to crawl out onto her hands. Monprit momentarily rescued the insects before dumping most into a glass tank. A reptile of some sort went into a feeding frenzy, gobbling up the crickets with a speed not usually associated with cold blooded creatures.

"I'm not saying he was, Miss Akira." Rechenko briefly patted her tiny shoulder. "I do think he spent an inordinate amount of time with only Jasmine there for company and he perhaps…fantasized over much."

"He only wanted to help people," Cynthia spoke in a tiny voice, "to eliminate suffering. How could anyone run him down?"

"That's why we're here." Bobby assured, slipping an arm around her. She sniffled once or twice, but he didn’t offer her his already used handkerchief. His shoulder gave her far more comfort than the perfunctory pat Rechenko had given.

Not to be dissuaded by Rechenko's allegations, Claire persisted, "But aren't you concerned about the potential inherent in a pain trigger? If it fell into the wrong hands, ramifications for torture are endless."

"There are infinite possibilities for good as well, one only has to see what is right in front of the eyes instead of postulating evil." Rechenko had the pompous tone of a lecturer who defended to death the right to build all sorts of nastiness in the name of scientific discovery. Nuclear weapons sprang to mind. "There is already in use an electronic device to turn off chronic pain. It must be surgically implanted, usually near the spine, and costs a mere $55,000. The sufferer must endure multiple surgeries for battery replacement and the calamities of faulty wiring, but it is truly a lifesaver for those with unrelenting, chronic pain. Every two seconds it shuts off the pain receptors to the target area, giving the patient instant relief."

"No kidding?" Bobby asked, fascinated in spite of himself.

"I wouldn't lie about pain, Agent Hobbes."

"I have read about that in the Journal of the American Medical Association." Claire agreed. "So what you want to do is create a drug that essentially does the same job."

"Exactly, it would be much less cost prohibitive and require no invasive surgeries which have such a high rate of iatrogenic infections." Rechenko smiled proudly, "So you see, my work didn't really differ that much from Perry's, except in his own mind. We both wish to relieve the pain of others."

"You're leaving the University to pursue this endeavor?" Claire asked.

"Yes, unfortunately, Dr. Byrd voiced his irrational fears to the Department heads, and they didn't condone what I was doing and asked me to restrict my work, basically tying my hands until I was nothing more than one of his grad students." He sighed melodramatically, "Thus I am forced to go into the private sector where my work is more fully appreciated."

"Where are you going to work?" Fawkes asked as if he didn't already know.

"A pharmaceutical company called Rouche was happy to back me financially."

He glanced at his watch, a gold Rolex, "And I really must get back to my packing. So much to do before I am settled in my new lab. But please keep me abreast of the ongoing investigation--I am so sorry to have lost such a brilliant, if flawed, researcher. And please give me a call if there's any word on the venom. I'd like to know what happened to it."

"We will, we will." Hobbes agreed, "Always good to have an expert around."

There was a palpable silence after the handsome man exited. Monprit had an almost hostile expression watching the lizard enjoy the last of the crickets.

"I can't stand him." Cynthia hissed, "He always says such nasty things about Dr. Byrd."

"He did have some salient points," Claire put in. When the rest of them stared agog at her, she back pedaled with a wave of her hand, "I meant about the pain research, not Peregrine. A drug that could help chronic sufferers would be a boon to science, except I don't see that it's feasible."

"Well, anybody can corrupt even the most noble idea in the name of perversion." Bobby sniped, "And that guy ain't got a noble bone in his body."

"I'm with Hobbes on this one," Fawkes agreed, "He's selling us a loada' crap. He knows we know and we know he knows…"

"And we are all together, koo koo ka choo?" Hobbes grinned, looking across the room at Fawkes. For one moment, they reconnected.

"Just think, Darien, if we could tweak the thalamus, the pain message center, so it could respond at will, the way you can do with the… " Claire stopped abruptly, suddenly aware that there were people in the room without knowledge of the gland inside Darien's skull. Cynthia and Monprit must have realized she was talking about something they didn't understand because both had perked up, their ears almost visibly quivering. "Ah, with the bio-feedback," she finished lamely.

"That is a common adjunct to conventional pain treatments these days," Monprit nodded, "But does Agent Fawkes have special abilities in that area?"

"My brother taught me bio-feedback to help control…headaches," Darien answered. "Monprit, why don't you show Hobbes and me where the accident happened?" He held open the door to get the grad student out before he could delve deeper into why Fawkes had 'special abilities'. "Maybe we can talk to campus security, see what kind of info they got?"

"Sure, it's just outside the building." Monprit agreed, but he was still looking at the taller man as if his analytical mind had just glommed onto something juicy and he wanted to take a big bite.

"Good thinking, Fawksey," Hobbes said out of the side of his mouth as he passed by, "Thanks for including me. Didn't really look like you needed a third wheel."

Floored by Hobbes' comment, Darien couldn't come up with a pithy comeback fast enough. It was becoming more and more obvious that the senior agent didn’t want a partner anymore. Well, that was just tough.

While he'd worked solo when he was a thief, Darien had gotten used to skating in the pairs competitions as an espionage agent. Hobbes was going to have a fight on his hands if he thought he could just cut Darien loose now. He'd always promised that Bobby Hobbes doesn't bail on his partner and Fawkes was determined to hold him to that if it was the last thing he ever did.

"I can't get myself motivated this morning." Cynthia said softly, looking around the cluttered lab. "There's so many things I ought to be doing, but I don't know where to start."

"That's totally understandable." Claire had to admit now that the room had emptied out of people, she began to feel Peregrine's loss more acutely. It wasn't as if they had been the greatest of pals; both their work schedules had been so busy that they had never had time to just hang out or even have lunch. But she had always looked forward to his e-mails and calls, enjoying the stimulating conversations with a person of her intellectual standing, something she hadn't had since her relationship with Darien's late brother Kevin. Peregrine would be sorely missed. "Cynthia, nothing has to be done today. Has his sister been called? Are there arrangements for a funeral?"

"I spoke to Dr. Byrd this morning, even before you called," Cynthia agreed. "But I'm not sure she'll be able to make the flight over from England. She has a bad heart, you know, it was the impetus for all of his work…to help cure his sister's pain."

"I know. Why don't you lock up here, get some rest and start fresh in a day or two. The animals have been fed, things will look better when everything's more settled."

"I suppose, although I don't like leaving Jasmine and the others alone so much. Dr. Byrd wouldn't have liked it." She opened the top of the glass tank housing the Taipan, reaching out tentatively to touch the snake's back with a bare hand. "When I first took one of his classes, as an undergrad, I was terrified of snakes, but his love of herpetology entranced me and afterwards I changed my major to learn all I could. He said I had a real feel for snakes, isn't that weird?"

Claire, who had no real fear of snakes herself, was still worried about that tiny hand so near the reptile's sharp fangs and deadly poison. "Cynthia, what happens if someone is accidentally bitten while working here?"

Jasmine, apparently having had her fill of the human's close proximity, raised her head, hissing, baring the arched fangs. Cynthia carefully withdrew her hand, going slowly to reduce any chance of the snake striking. She closed the tank's lid and locked it. "We always have anti-venom of the species we're dealing with available." The little Japanese girl frowned down at the trapped snake, "Dr. Byrd insisted on it--for safety reasons. Last year a freshman was messing around and nearly died when a Cottonmouth snake bit him. I couldn't tell you how many times Dr. Byrd was bitten by Jasmine, but he still loved her dearly. It's heartbreaking."

"So, the department keeps anti-venom for every deadly animal in the building?" Claire asked.

"For insurance purposes. We have some of the most common ones, and there are a few grad students who are learning to produce it. Did you know that Black Widow spider antitoxin is made from horses who've been immunized with the venom?"

"I didn't." Claire glanced around as if expecting to see a big white box with a red cross on it and the word anti-venom. "Is it all kept in a central location?"

"Yes, and the few things we don't have actually on hand, we make sure are at least available in the city of San Diego. For instance, the Funnel Web spider anti-venom is prohibitively expensive and only manufactured in the last few years…The Zoo has a display of spiders and also keeps a ready supply. They have Funnel Web and a few others we don't." She sighed, trailing her fingers over the container housing the large black spider with the hairy legs, "Spider bites and things like that I can handle…but a hit and run, why?"

Not any more equipped to answer that question than she could have explained how the universe began, Claire shrugged, watching out the window as Bobby, Darien and Monprit examined the black skid marks on the parking lot below.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Campus Security reports that a nondescript dark blue or black sedan was seen speeding on the road leading away from that parking lot at just after six thirty, but nobody got a license plate number or saw anything." Hobbes reported to the Official and Eberts with disgust in his voice. "Monprit Vishnu only heard the car from the window of the lab. Ain't much more we can tell you. Tire tracks are the make most Fords come standard with. Police are releasing the body once an autopsy is performed, but nothing much should come as a surprise. It was a classic hit and run. Quick and thorough."

For some reason, Hobbes' cut and dried run through of the facts only exacerbated Darien's headache. Just a small irritant when he'd gotten up, it was now a full-blown brain buster, pounding between his ears. Only the two grad students and Claire had seemed really emotional about Peregrine's demise and that was really beginning to bother him. Especially after Dr. Rechenko's reaction. He's made it sound like Byrd was a crackpot and better off dead so that others could continue on with the serious work.

"Well, since the police are ahead of us on this, there's not a lot we can contribute without stepping on departmental toes," Charlie Borden mused, his fingers steepled in front of his nose. "Eberts, did my order arrive yet?" He asked officiously.

"I-I'll just go find out." Eberts bobbed his head. "And I have the coupon for the large…" He smiled and scurried out the door.

So the Fat Man had ordered out and not invited the underlings. It wasn't like it hadn't happened before but with his head pounding so badly, Darien was less inclined to accept the slight. He needed to get out of there, glad of the excuse to get his own lunch. His stomach was sending up hunger signals demanding some of that take out.

"Keep on with the venom robbery," Borden ordered, "We've already gotten confirmation from Agent Monroe that she's half way to Australia and has been in contact with an informant that may be able to help link Rouche with the smuggled goods. If we can get a paper trail or even an electronic one we can get a court order to search the place and find the stuff."

"What if Fawkes goes in and gets a sample of the stuff, sir?" Hobbes asked politely. "See through, of course."

 _Of course, give the Invisible Man all the dangerous jobs_. Darien groused to himself.

"No can do, Hobbes, we need this by the book or Rouche's lawyers will have the whole case thrown out in a hot second." The Official looked expectantly towards the door. The smell of garlic chicken and hot sizzling soup was tantalizing to the senses. "We want to nail this company to the wall. Eberts has uncovered a wealth of indictments they just seem to weasel right out of. Now get out of here while I study our next move."

While gobbling up take out Chinese, if the aroma was any indication. Eberts reentered, carrying a large bag with Asian writing on the side and pulled out a set of chopsticks for his boss. When there were no offers to share even a grain of rice, Fawkes and Hobbes left to head over to the cramped little box designated as their office.

"C'mon, Hobbesy, " Fawkes wheedled, "Let's get out of here, away from the snakes and spiders and crap. I know a couple of Big Macs with our names on 'em."

"Okay, " Bobby agreed, not sounding at all enthusiastic about it.

The drive over to the golden arches was strained, the air inside the van still like a hot afternoon just before a huge storm.

Soon they were seated just outside the kiddie enclosure with a supersized order of fries between them, two Big Macs, a Coke for Hobbes and a chocolate shake for Darien.

Picking at the French fries, Darien studied his partner's shuttered face. Hobbes looked like he was about to launch into another one of his "Buck up and act more like a Marine" speeches. It felt like the Grand Canyon had split the earth between them and they were shouting at each other from different states. Where was the Hobbes who used to tease him about his scruffy appearance and crazy hair?

"Seems like a long time since we've just kicked back, snuck into a movie…" Fawkes started, dipping a fry into the tiny little paper cup of catsup. Some places were just too stingy to give out individual packets of the stuff. Remembering the last time they'd tried that, maybe it hadn't been such a good opening line. After all, he'd had an adverse reaction to the gland and been unable to completely unQuicksilver his limbs.

Hobbes had the same reaction, giving Fawkes a strange look before going back to rearranging the pickles and lettuce on his burger. It was never a good sign when Hobbes started obsessing about his condiments.

"Okay, so bad example, but maybe we could hit the Mammoth Slide at the water park? You liked that one…"

"Fawkes, you don’t have to act like you want me around all the time." Hobbes said sadly, "Let's face it, things have changed."

"Like what?" Darien demanded sharply. One or two of the tots diving in the ball pit looked over at the table to see if the grown-ups were going to start a fight and he waved at them, which made a little blonde girl giggle wildly and dive back under the balls again.

"You don't need a watcher any more." Bobby stated flatly.

"Yeah, and what's that supposed to mean?"

"As you pointed out so recently, you're not new at this anymore. You know what to do in a tense situation and except for the regrettable reluctance to use a gun, you get along just fine. I don't gotta stick around and hold your hand anymore, kid. No more madness, no more Bobby Hobbes."

The bite of hamburger and bun stuck about half way down Darien's throat and for a paralyzing moment he thought he'd need the Heimlich maneuver. A spat of coughing finally dislodged it so that it slid painfully down into his stomach. "H-hobbes! Is that what you think?" Literally at a loss for words, he groped for the right thing to say. How could Hobbes have twisted things around like this? "That I don't need you anymore?"

"I'm used to bein' solo--a lot easier to go undercover that way." Hobbes shrugged as if it were no big deal, his face as much of a mask as Rechenko's had been. Only Darien knew him well enough to see the anger and pain underneath it. He just couldn't fathom where the hell this was all coming from. "You have a career to think about now--you're not some nickel and dime petty thief anymore. You've got a lot of potential and…" Bobby trailed off.

"And what?" Fawkes demanded, still trying to breathe past the lump in his throat. His stomach was clenching around what little he'd eaten, his mouth was watering with nausea.

"And, you could do better for yourself, kid. I think…I think maybe you had the right idea there, when you defected to Jonesy's crew at the FBI. You got a future, now. You can really do something with your life, if you tried."

"I thought I was." Darien began, his voice strangled. "I thought we were here for the same reasons. To kick some Chrysalis butt. To find Arnaud and take that sick Swiss-miss down." This was so totally out of left field he didn't know how to answer. "You sorry I came back? Is that it?" Fawkes asked, hurting so bad he could hardly see straight. What did you do when your partner was telling you he wished you hadn't bothered coming back to the Agency?

"No!" Hobbes said, and for a split second everything was all right again. "No, I'm not sorry you came back. I just wonder if you aren't. Sorry, I mean," He played with one of the French fries, breaking it in half and crumbling the rest. "Hell, Fawkes, you could just about write your own ticket here. You've got some trainin', you've got some experience and you've got one hell of a natural talent for the game. I look at you, man and I see no end to the places you can go. But only if you step out there on your own. I don't wanna be holdin' you back, Fawkesy."

Holding him back? What the hell was Hobbes talking about?

"Are you telling me you don't want me around? Don't want to be partners anymore?" Darien asked, swallowing with effort, trying not to believe that was what he was hearing. He stared at the balding man across the table while Hobbes took another bite of his hamburger, chewing it hard enough that the muscles in his jaw were clenching. Bobby was angry and hurting and Darien didn't have a clue to what he had done to provoke him.

"Yeah, that's what I'm tellin' you. You don't need me, Fawkes. Not any more. You're a big boy now."

Fawkes' mouth dropped open and he stared in disbelief. "If that's the way you feel, then I guess I'll work with Monroe, at least when the Boss isn't pimping her to the fibbies."

"Fine." Hobbes nodded just once, his jaw tight.

"Hobbes…" Fawkes started, then stopped when the balding agent stood up.

"Yeah?" He put on a pair of sunglasses, hiding away those windows to his soul

"Nothing, man, just…nothing." Darien wanted to shout his mantra back at him, that Bobby Hobbes didn't bail on his partner, but it still hurt too much to breathe.

"Then I got stuff to catch up on back at the Agency." Hobbes balled up his barely touched burger and tossed it over hand into the trash bin. "You want you a ride back?"

"No thanks," Fawkes answered stiffly, wishing he could just disappear right there in front of all the kids and the soccer moms. "I'll find my own way."

"I know you can, Fawkes." Hobbes said quietly, then turned and walked out.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Three

 

Lionel Jeffries drummed his fingers on his wide mahogany desk, flicking a bored glance at his humming computer screen. He was on hold; the person on the other end of the line was keeping him waiting far too long. He was just about to cut the connection short and shoot off a curt e-mail when there was a soft click and the voice came back into his ear via the tiny receiver plugged into his left ear.

"Had to relay the good news to my superiors."

"And they were pleased?" Jeffries held his temper. These contacts could make him a wealthy man for the rest of his days. He could retire without another thought about the welfare of sick whiners who bitched about their illnesses.

"Inordinately. As long as you can control the situation. It was extremely bad judgment to have used those people in Australia. I hope something of that caliber of stupidity doesn't happen again, or there will have to be changes made."

"They've already been taken care of," Jeffries assured, smoothing a hand down his Armani silk tie.

"You have the ready materials at your disposal AND the necessary files to start the project?"

"There's only one more obstacle and that will be eliminated before the week is out." Jeffries grinned maliciously.

"I take it then you have things well in hand."

"There'll be a pain trigger drug by the end of this fiscal year, you have my word on it." Lionel Jeffries nodded with confidence, secure in his position of power.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

After Hobbes left McDonald's, Darien didn't see much point in sticking around any longer either. The hamburger had lost its appeal and even the chocolate shake was as tasteless as chalk. He trashed his lunch, heading for the beach. But the laughter and camaraderie of a bunch of high school biology students sent pangs of loneliness straight through his breastbone and he Quicksilvered. Heading in the opposite direction from the school group he'd wandered aimlessly, looking for a quiet hideout of his own. He hadn't intended to stay invisible the whole time, but had maintained the flow of Quicksilver far longer than he'd ever done before. It was something he'd never really experimented with since the madness problem had been taken care of. Under the previous 30 minute limit, he'd never even stayed invisible for more than 10 to 15 minutes at a time. Now, it seemed the sky was the limit. He wandered the beach, Quicksilvered, for nearly an hour without any madness or really negative side effects. The general all over headache persisted, the kind the painkiller ads used to call Excedrin headache number 235, but that was probably due more to the fact that he hadn't eaten much lunch than anything else. It did give him a peculiar empathy for what it must have been like for Arnaud before he got the gland out. People looking through him as if he weren't there, because to them, he wasn't. The way Bobby had looked at him at the restaurant. Like he'd ceased to exist.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Not wanting to have to talk to anyone, Darien debated about going back to the Agency at all, but knew he had to. He did have some professional ethics after all, and as Hobbes had pointed out, a career to think about. Sure, he could slide by with his little trick, as his erstwhile partner had termed it, but more and more Darien was discovering that doing the bare minimum wasn't enough. Not sure he could face Hobbes just yet he copped out by walking into the building Quicksilvered, staying that way until he'd gotten to Claire's lab.

"D-darien!" Claire did a double take when the lab door slid open without anyone coming through. "Show yourself now!" Shaking off the Quicksilver, he watched the flakes dissipate almost before they hit the ground. They never stayed visible very long, but they were pretty, like silver snowflakes.

"Where have you been?" Claire demanded, shaking a latex gloved finger at him. "Bobby was very concerned."

"Sure he was," Fawkes snapped snidely. His head was still pounding and he was in no mood for another lecture. "Whatcha doin'?"

Claire studied Darien's face for a minute longer before tossing her long blonde hair over one shoulder with a flip of her head and went back to a beaker with a clear yellowish liquid inside. "Synthesizing poisons." She said off-handedly as if it were an every day kind of a thing.

Darien realized that she was probably used to dealing with dangerous chemicals on a daily basis. She used to whip up a batch of counteragent every other day or so and although it had been a vital component to Darien's mental stability it was a toxic chemical to the general public. Luckily, he no longer needed it.

What he did need right then was about four Advil, because the headache pounding just above his eyes was making it hard to even think straight. Luckily, it was a totally different pain than a Quicksilver madness migraine, so he let it slide. No use worrying the good doctor.

"This right here is the so-called Kool-Aid that Bobby found on the floor of the warehouse," she said.

"And?"

"It's a toxin given off by some types of frogs." Claire sounded fascinated by this bit of information and turned the pages of a big book she had propped near her Bunsen burner, running her finger down a column of numbers. "The Poison Dart frog, to be specific. Everything the two of you found amongst those smuggled boxes was either toxic, venomous or at least highly poisonous to humans. Nasty, nasty stuff."

"Just makes me go warm and fuzzy all over." Fawkes curled his lip. "So, Rouche must be onto more than just that pain trigger thing. They're going for mass bioterrorism, is my guess."

Sighing, Claire nodded, "I can't discount that theory at this time."

"Crap," he said because there wasn't anything else to say. He had an overwhelming urge to go home and pull the covers up over his head like when he was a kid. But with the way his luck had been going that linoleum-tunneling spider would be doing its thing in the floorboards. Massaging his temples, he debated asking Claire for aspirin. Except admitting he had a headache would most certainly lead to all sorts of complications, the first being she'd want to draw blood. That was Claire's initial reaction to almost any physical ailment. Even when the patient was already bleeding she wanted to siphon off more blood for some lab test.

"Is something bothering you?" she asked, transferring a pipette of a lethal substance from one test tube to another. "Do you want anything in particular or are you just hiding out in here?"

"Pretty much hiding out," Fawkes agreed unhappily.

"There's yogurt in the fridge." She went back to her work, obviously aware that he and Bobby had had words, but not about to push. Darien had always liked that about Claire. She knew when to take a step back and let things work themselves out. Except how would they work out? What was the first step to take? In Fawkes' opinion, this was all Hobbes' doing. What was going on with him? Darien had been doing what everybody expected of him, taking classes, following orders, doing the job and now Hobbes had basically blown him off. Dumped him like some back seat one-night stand. He couldn't win for losing. The friendship he felt for Hobbes went far beyond partnership and much closer into the range of brothers. He'd already lost one brother, he didn't intend to lose another.

"Not very hungry," he said miserably.

"Do I need to schedule a physical?" She asked sharply, pronouncing schedule as the British did so that it rhymed with the word shed.

"I'm good, I'll go out and get something really healthy at Whole Foods." Fawkes held up his hands in defeat. The grocery was in the same block as his house and had some bitchin' brownies in the bakery. Two of those gave a buzz almost as good as a cup of coffee.

"Darien," she caught him with his hand on the control to open the metal door. "Give Bobby a little time, this is all new to him and he needs to adjust."

"Sure." He sauntered out, mulling over her words. What was all new to Hobbes? Breaking up their partnership? Because, if that was it, Hobbsey boy had another think coming. Deciding then and there that he wasn't just going to walk off with Monroe into the sunset, Darien Fawkes resolved that he didn't bail on his partner either. He just didn't know what the hell was wrong. Yet. All he had to do was find out and then fix it. Whatever it was.

Returning to her work, Claire tried to keep her mind on the task at hand, but more and more she was disgusted with all that Rouche represented. They were a large, well-respected company responsible for hundreds of drugs that helped people all over the world every day. Even Rechenko's research really did have applications for good. But any company that would smuggle such poisons instead of going through regular channels and then steal the fruits of a man's career just to speed up their own financial gains was rotten to its corporate core, no matter how many good products they manufactured.

Just as she'd identified yet another deadly toxin from the remains Fawkes and Hobbes had brought back from the warehouse, the phone rang, jangling her already stressed nerves.

"Hello?" She juggled the handset onto her shoulder so she could finish cleaning up after the last experiment.

"Claire? It's Cynthia."

"Yes, dear, how are you doing?" Claire asked sympathetically. She should have stayed longer with the distraught girl, but she'd had so much to do today.

"Monprit and I came back this afternoon to discuss moving the animals into another lab and he decided to check the last entry Dr. Byrd had made on his research. The file was empty! There's nothing left."

"You mean on the computer?"

"Yes, it's all gone! Do you think it could have been stolen?" Cynthia sounded perilously close to crying again.

"Are you sure?" Claire put down the test tubes she'd been labeling, needing to concentrate. "Maybe he put in a password, or encrypted them?"

"No, it was Monprit who really kept the computer files in order. Dr. Byrd wasn't very savvy about things like that. He wouldn't know how to do that by himself."

"Have you checked the University mainframe? It must be backed up there." Claire suggested sensibly. "Maybe he accidentally erased it when he tried to copy the material so he could take it home with him?"

"His computer at home and this one were networked, there'd be no need." Cynthia sighed, "Doesn't this make it look like someone killed him to get to his research?"

"I don't mean to sound dismissive, Cynthia, but you've been reading too many mystery novels." Claire soothed, snapping off her latex gloves. "There has to be a more logical explanation. I'm sure you'll find the research in a place you least expect it. His research was important, but not something worth killing for."

"All right, Claire, if you think so." The girl sounded worried though, and privately, the blond doctor had to agree with her. She hadn't told anyone about the odd note she'd received from Peregrine and now the strange fact that his research was conspicuously missing pointed to something rotten in Denmark, or more to the point at Rouche.

Should she tell The Official about her fears? Surely Peregrine's hit and run could no longer be considered an accident. He'd been murdered.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hobbes managed to avoid running into Fawkes all the next day. Every time Darien even saw his partner's profile, Hobbes was off on some assignment pertinent to the case and he was being sent off somewhere else. The Fat Man kept them plenty busy, especially after Alex's Australian connections came through big time with a paper trail linking Rouche to the smuggled shipment.

Well, technically, it wasn't a paper trail at all, more like a cyber trail, but Eberts, hacker extraordinaire, was up to the challenge. With just the names Monroe had obtained on the Australian end he was able to wade through a parade of subsidiary companies back to the daddy of them all--Rouche. With that kind of evidence, the U.S. government had grounds to generate an injunction against the pharmaceutical company and levy an astronomical fine.

Then, just to make things interesting, a couple of animal rights groups and environmental activists got wind of the whole mess, too. Nobody liked a big giant who squashed endangered species under its feet and then pretended they didn't do it. Rouche did have corporate lawyers on retainer with nothing else to do but obfuscate and generate reams of paper. Aside from the 'no comment' to the local news people, not so much as a peep came from them that day. Between the added security they put in place after the story hit the five o'clock news, and the warning from the local attorney general's office to play it cool until everyone was sure of the facts, the Agency couldn't have gotten close to the mirrored monolith with a search warrant if they'd tried.

"Eberts?" Hobbes planted himself in front of the other man's tiny desk tucked back behind the filling cabinets. "You have that address I'm supposed to check out?"

"Yes, just a moment." Albert Eberts finished typing the last of his ongoing report on the current investigations. "Where's Darien?"

"Fawkes n' me are going solo these days." Hobbes said, his eyes on his shoes to avoid seeing the worried look that crossed the other man's features. "I cleared it with the Official."

"Do you think that's wise, Robert?" Eberts paused before hitting the print button, his brow furrowed.

"It ain't up to you, is it, Eberts?"

"Just that you two fit-like Pinky and the Brain, Butch and Sundance, Bert and Ernie…" Eberts sounded wistful, never having had a friend like that. And to have Hobbes say so casually that the partnership was over….He found himself regretting it.

"The kid doesn't need somebody like me holdin' him back," Hobbes said gruffly, trying to ignore the tightness in his throat. "He was working there for the FBI for a minute and a half. That wasn't such a great fit, but you know he could go places, and I…can't. So, he needs to get out there and start finding his place in the sun." He cleared his throat, reaching for the paper Eberts held out for him. "Nothing holding him back."

"I don't think Agent Fawkes thought about it that way."

"Yeah, well, I always did do the thinkin' for the both of us." Hobbes started out into the hall, blinking his eyes rapidly to try and read the address.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"How soon will you be able to start your experiments?" Jeffries asked, surveying the mess of boxes and piles of papers that littered the previously empty lab on the tenth floor of Rouche Pharmaceuticals West. Rechenko had been using the time after his last classes to transfer his possessions from one locale to the other.

"I need time to get organized," Sergi said irritably. He'd been so excited when first approached by the company to do his research for a considerable increase in salary, but now that the start of a whole new life was just at his fingertips, he was unaccountably nervous. And had been since Monday. Peregrine's untimely death had shaken his confidence. Yes, he had what it took to be a top-level scientist with the world waiting for his latest discovery, and the pain trigger drug, when it was finished, would guarantee him instant fame. But he had a niggling worry that what little control he'd ever had had been wrenched out of his hands even before he'd started work. "I cannot undertake a project of this magnitude with my work space cluttered and necessary equipment half unpacked."

"Well, get to work. There is a deadline, in case you had forgotten." Jeffries' pink cheeked, grandfatherly looking face was hard and cruel. "With all the publicity about the damned shipment, we need some positive initiative here. The VP at the corporate headquarters is getting nervous that something…or somebody will screw things up."

"What if those Fish and Game guys manage to get the search warrant they're threatening?" Rechenko couldn't help but think about the way things would have been back in Russia. He'd been a child during the worst of the KGB's reign of terror, but he could remember his uncle and father being dragged off in the night, screaming that they were innocent. He'd never seen them again. "This venom…"

"Is the most important component to your experiments." Jeffries interrupted, "Guard it with your life, and get started on your work. I need results, not arguments."

"And what if there are no results under your deadline?" Rechenko challenged, frightened. He no longer felt like king of the mountain, but more like a peasant on the way to the gulag.

"This isn't old Russia, comrade." Jeffries answered as if he could read Sergi's thoughts, "We don't kill people just because they disagree with us in America." He turned on his heel, striding out, confident he'd had the last word.

Almost mechanically, Sergi picked up a sheaf of papers to slide into the filing cabinet but was startled by a distinct rustling sound, almost like a rattlesnake. It wasn't until after he'd visually searched the room for any live reptiles that he noticed the papers in his hand, shaking as if there was a strong wind in the room. He dropped them to the floor, watching them spread out like leaves on a pond. Jeffries was going to kill him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Oh, good, Darien, just the person I wanted to see." Claire grabbed his hand the minute he walked in through the front door of the Harding building and started to drag him back out. While it was nice to be greeted so enthusiastically, he'd only just arrived and had planned on a big cup of coffee and maybe time to hang with Hobbes before doing anything really strenuous. Stopping abruptly he realized that was never going to happen again. "C'mon, Darien," Claire persisted.

"Where're we going?" Fawkes asked irritably.

"To the University, to Peregrine's office," she announced. "I need a big strong man to help me carry a few things."

So that's what he'd been reduced to, doing his invisible trick and brute strength for lifting heavy objects. "Can I at least stop for a cup of coffee?"

"Of course." Claire gave him a sunny smile, unlocking the doors of her SUV with a press of the little button on her key ring. The horn beeped twice and they climbed inside. "Starbucks or do you have something else in mind?"

"Starbucks," he muttered. "What is it I'm supposed to lug around?"

"Cynthia Akira is very concerned because Peregrine's research has turned up missing. She wants me to take Jasmine into my lab to keep her safe."

"All this for a snake?" Darien squeaked. "D'you think Rechenko stole the research?"

"That's what she thinks, but I don't see what use he would have for it. It's not really related to his own, except peripherally." Claire pulled up in front of the ubiquitous coffee emporium. "I'm more inclined to believe that Peregrine himself did something with it before he died, and we'll never know what because he took the secret with him."

"Claire?" He waited until they had both gotten out of the vehicle then came around in front of her so she couldn't avoid looking up at him. Height did have some advantages. "What is it you're not telling me?"

"Well…" She blew out a breath that puffed out her cheeks, "Just before I found out that Peregrine had been killed I got a strange e-mail."

"From?"

"Peregrine. It sounded…drastic. If he hadn't been obviously killed by a hit and run I was afraid he was about to…"

"Kill himself?"

"I don't know. I was literally calling him that morning when Cynthia told me the news."

This took some digesting. Darien ordered a double mocha espresso and an apple cinnamon muffin. Claire got tea and a blueberry scone and they were on their way in minutes. After getting a few swallows of caffeine and sugar into his system, Darien felt more alive. He hadn't been able to get much sleep the night before because his mind wouldn't shut down; he'd been ruminating over the reason for Hobbes' bug out. What had he done? Was there something Hobbes wanted him to do?

"Have you told the Fat Man about this?" Fawkes asked after a few minutes.

"No, because frankly I was beginning to think I was just being paranoid."

"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean…"

"No one's out to get you," she finished with a quirky smile. "I know, but it's not like it has real bearing on the current case, does it?"

"We don't know it doesn't." Fawkes countered. "At this point, everything that has anything to do with venom is suspect in my book."

"Well, then it probably is far safer that we have Jasmine with us. I don't want Cynthia or Monprit getting hurt."

"Can you really manage to help keep that guy in the States?"

"I have the qualifications for professorial staff, I could get myself down as his advisor or mentor."

"Bet Alex could pull a few strings. She knows just about everybody."

"Wonderful idea, Darien. Did that muffin sufficiently restore your strength or do you want to finish mine?" He took the rest of her scone eagerly.

She parked in the lot just below Peregrine's lab, only a few feet from where he'd met his demise. Darien found he had to walk double time to pass the still partially visible police outline on the asphalt. Claire never looked in that direction at all.

It was quickly decided that Jasmine should make the trip in a small animal carrier so they could empty out and clean the huge tank before loading it onto a dolly. Monprit helped out with the brawn, but Fawkes let the experienced women do the snake handling. Despite his unease the transfer occurred quickly without any complaint from the snake.

Cynthia lifted a small warming light out of the terrarium, a water dish and some rocks following in its wake. "Oh, my God, what's this?" She held up a small square plastic case.

"Cyn?" Monprit turned, his dark skin paling. "What's a CD doing in Jasmine's tank?"

"It has Dr. Byrd's handwriting on it." Cynthia said faintly holding it out to Claire.

Without further ado Claire slipped the CD into the slot in Peregrine's computer, hitting the icon that popped up to reveal the contents. "It's his research." Claire breathed, "Jasmine is the keeper of my heart."

"What?" Fawkes leaned over her shoulder to read the document but it was all science-eze to him.

"That's what he wrote to me, Jasmine is the keeper of my heart and if anything were to happen to him I should take care of her. He meant for me to find this."

"Well, all the more reason for us to get it…her back to your lab where there's more security." Looking over at the two grad students, Fawkes felt a strong instinct to protect a couple of innocents who'd gotten in way over their heads. "Look, don't tell anyone for now that we've found this. If there is any trouble brewing, we'll take care of it, okay?"

"Dr. Rechenko was here yesterday asking about it," Cynthia said weakly.

"You didn't tell me that!" Claire ejected the CD from the computer and slipped it back into the jewel case, then into her purse.

"I didn't know where it was and told him so. He was really upset." She bit her lip nervously, "Do you think he…killed Dr. Byrd?"

"We're getting way ahead of ourselves." Darien almost wanted to pat her on her pretty little head but restricted himself to rubbing her back instead, "Leave it to the experts and don't try to worry so much. We've got it covered. Let's just get the tank cleaned up and we're outta here."

Darien's arms were killing him by the time he and Monprit had gotten the huge tank loaded into the SUV. Claire drove back to the Agency, her face solemn, and he didn't have the heart to intrude. She'd lost a friend, which he could sympathize with. Where was Hobbes, anyway?

Once again Darien was enlisted to carry death in a box, only this time it was alive. He didn't tell the pretty doctor how queasy it made him to have a girl named Jasmine on his lap.

"Cynthia was right," Claire said after she'd supervised the installation of the tank back in her lab. They'd had to shove several tanks of Claire's eclectic menagerie out of the way for Jasmine's new home, but in the end it all fit.

"About what?" Darien rubbed all the new sore spots, staying as far away as possible while she placed the long pale snake back in the tank and locked the lid.

"Rechenko could have had something to do with his death. Don't tell me you haven't thought about that before now."

"Sure, but we have no proof." Crossing his arms across his chest, he leaned against the exam chair, glad he no longer had to sit in it quite so often anymore. "So far everything connects back to Rouche. It's possible that Rechenko got caught up in stuff he didn't expect."

"He did sound sincere in his hopes that the drug could have beneficial uses." Claire said.

"Claire, the guy's a jerk of major proportions but he may not be culpable in the theft."

"Culpable." She grinned, "Building your vocabulary in your spare time, Agent Fawkes?" she gave an impertinent emphasis to the word 'agent'.

"Found some old Reader's Digests at the thrift store." Darien tipped an imaginary hat at her. "He probably saw all the dollar signs they were offering and didn't think a whole lot about where the venom came from." He grimaced, "In fact, he probably inadvertently told 'em where to get it."

"I think we do need to talk to the Official." She hooked a lock of hair behind her ear, "How're you doing…lately?"

"Why?"

"I know that what Bobby did hurt your feelings."

"I'm not six, things like that don't hurt my feelings any more," Fawkes lied, the old lump back in his throat. He pushed half-heartedly at his limp, lackadaisical hair. Even the hair gel wasn't holding up lately. The fact was he felt like crap and the headache he'd acquired two days ago had never really gone away. Probably would have helped if he'd slept more.

"You wear your emotions on your sleeve, sweetheart." Claire tipped her head to look up into those puppy dog brown eyes. "Probably not the best trait for an agent, but a wonderful one for a friend. You two need to sit down together in the same room and talk things out."

"Claire, he doesn't want to work with me anymore, he made that pretty clear."

"I suspect there's more here than meets the eye."

"That could be said about a lot of things, yep." Darien nudged her with one elbow to show there were no hard feelings and ambled out of the lab behind her.

Coming down the hall, they could hear excited voices issuing from room 202. Alex Monroe, proving just why she had earned the five star rating, was back from her transcontinental flight. Even after15 hours in the air Monroe didn't have a hair out of place.

Although he'd never quite managed to get below her prickly exterior, Darien had to admit she had a killer body, in more ways than one. She often dressed in clothes one step above hooker wear, though, and today looked like she'd just stepped out of an ad for "Leather Babes in Spikes". He'd found a cache of the out-of-date magazine in a bin at the thrift store the last time he'd dropped in to browse and taken them home for further perusal.

"Welcome back, Miss Monroe." Eberts stood in his usual spot behind the Fish, his eyes shining as he gazed reverently at her. She gave him a smile before taking off her little black leather jacket to drape over a chair. Eberts immediately scrambled over to hang it up for her.

Darien slunk in, taking up residence in a ladder-backed chair shoved up between the windows.

"Look who's back!" Hobbes said brightly as if she were his favorite person on earth. Bobby was as hyper as a flea, unable to keep still. He pulled up a chair for the amused Monroe, shaking her hand, and offering a cup of water. He tried settling in a chair only to jump up again and circle the room, walking within inches of Fawkes' long legs.

"Alex!" Claire exclaimed, "Great to have you back."

"Her information may be the key to bringing charges against Rouche." Charlie Borden praised, "Good work, Agent Monroe."

"Thank you, sir." She gave a tight nod, "I'm ready for about twenty hours off in my own bed after nearly two days flying there and back."

"Your work had an extra added bonus." Eberts opened up the financial section of the newspaper with a flourish. "According to the Dow Jones, Rouche stock plummeted to an all time low after news of their imminent indictment in the smuggling."

"Way to go!" Hobbes raised his hand in a high five before remembering that his partner was no longer by his side and quickly changed the gesture to a raised fist. Eberts responded enthusiastically shaking his own fist in solidarity.

"Just glad to know I helped in the team's effort." Monroe said modestly, totally unlike her usual bravado. She was dragging with exhaustion.

"I have something to tell you, sir." Claire called out, linking arms with the dark haired woman "I'll just walk Alex out first." They walked out together, heads down for some serious girl talk, " Thank you ever so for the referral to the gym, it was terrific."

"You're welcome. Did you try the pool?"

Since he thought Claire should be the one to tell the others what they'd uncovered that morning, Fawkes focused his attention on his old partner. Frankly, Bobby Hobbes didn't look like he was getting much more sleep either. He was all twitchy with restless energy, pacing around the room like a caged tiger. "How ya doin', Bobby? Haven't seen you around much."

"Yeah? " He shrugged, "Been really busy, Fawkes, you know, here and there."

That was more than apparent, Darien felt tired just watching the ceaseless movement.

"Hobbes, park it on a chair until the doctor gets back here!" The Fat Man ordered, more than tired of Hobbes' hyperkinetics.

"I'm here!" Claire sailed back in, "Darien and I went over to the campus to get Jasmine, Dr. Byrd's Taipan." She went on to describe the morning's events, ending with the discussion about Rechenko.

"The guy's involved all right." Hobbes said sourly, "Up to his eyeballs."

"Why haven't we shut them down yet?" Darien spoke up, having given little to the conversation so far. "I mean we know the place is dirty."

"The lawyers are duking it out in Federal court as we speak." Charles Borden sighed, his jowls sinking into his chest. "There's not a shred of evidence that they had anything to do with Byrd's death. The car was never identified or found."

"No nice personalized plates, huh?" he grumped.

"Even the tire tracks were standard make for a late model Ford." Eberts supplied, "There are over eleven thousand Fords in the greater San Diego area."

"What about the stolen venom?" Claire persisted.

"We weren't exactly there with a warrant when we saw the stuff, so it's inadmissible in court." Hobbes looked directly at Fawkes for the first time.

Darien could sense his partner's unhappiness from across the room. So they were both miserable. He'd let Hobbes stew for a while before pulling some subtle con artistry that would lure the little ex-New Yorker back without him even suspecting. The question was what would work? And how long before he started to reel Bobby in? He'd rather be working with a partner right now, truth be told.

"If I had a sample of that venom I could compare the protein structures to some I got straight from Jasmine," Claire proposed. "Wouldn't that go a long way to proving the origin of the venom Rouche has?"

"Yeah, but if I stole some back, they'd know." Darien sat up straighter, catching her idea.

"Who could they tell?" The Official looked truly nasty with a toothy grin on his thick face. "I like that kind of thinking, Doctor. As long as they can't trace it back to us."

"I could go, grab a vial and be out in no time." Darien was already cataloging his knowledge of the exits and entrances. He hadn't been able to see the whole building, but there must be several ways in and out. And the problem of how to approach that big, open lobby. Where was the loading dock and could he get in unseen from there?

"Not without back up you don't." Bobby said decisively.

"I'm used to going solo." Fawkes said tightly, using Hobbes' own words against him, "Don't need a partner to break in anywhere."

"They've changed all their security since the news broke. Me and Heyes went by yesterday." Hobbes' whole demeanor changed. He felt calmer, able to focus on the mission. "They've got a guard in that front booth now, checking everybody's ID."

"Hey, it's me, remember?" Darien said softly, almost afraid to break the spell. They were communicating, however awkwardly. "Mr. Invisible? I can go anywhere I want. No ID required."

"Good thing, 'cause the last picture you took broke the camera, Frankenstein." Hobbes teased. "You really think you can do this?"

"Yeah, Bobby, I do."

"Eberts." Borden barked, "Get us a floor plan of the Rouche building."

"Yessir." Eberts beamed, ready to be of service. He bent over the computer by the Official's desk, tapping away at the keys.

"No way can we go in tonight." Hobbes frowned, thinking furiously. "Too many variables. We need to scope the place out, watch for their patterns."

"I've done this before, Hobbes." Darien deadpanned, but this was so right. The two of them back in the groove, speaking each other's language.

"All we have to do is claim that there was still one vial left at the University." Claire added in her bit, "And we have them dead to rights."

"If the stuff matches the snake." Hobbes had to go with the what ifs.

"This is gonna work, Hobbes, I can feel it in my bones." Darien assured him.

The printer clattered to life, spitting out a full set of copies of the building's original blueprints. However Eberts managed to come up with the stuff he did, nobody was ever willing to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Let's go do some recon, Charlie." Hobbes grinned up at Fawkes, rolling the papers into a tight tube.

"Roger that, Colonel Hogan." he saluted smartly, following Hobbes out to the van.

"You think I'm Hogan?" Hobbes asked, looking pleased.

"Well, you got that Klink thing goin' on here." Darien ran an affectionate hand over his bald head, "But you're the leader of this little band of wacky commandos, so yeah…as long as I can be Newkirk." He'd always liked Richard Dawson's Cockney ex-thief best, that is until the actor had gone on to the demeaning job as game show host on "Family Feud".

"Then, since I'm the leader, you gotta do as I say." Hobbes shook a finger at the taller man, climbing into the driver's seat.

"I'm just waitin' for you to impart some of your vast espionage wisdom, Colonel." Fawkes leaned back in the seat, feet against the dash, happy for the first time in days.

Checking the perimeters, as Hobbes termed it, or casing a joint, as Darien liked to say, although essential to a well planned job, was inherently boring. Without every piece of information a job could be ruined. Not knowing all the ins and outs and who'll be where when could compromise one's partner or even forfeit a mission. Having learned that before he was out of high school, Darien was able to sit quietly in the cab of the van just outside the fence of Rouche, while Hobbes scanned the fortress with binoculars.

As Hobbes had said, there was a lot more security now and although he had slapped a fake TV station logo on the side of Golda to fit in with the cluster of news vans still parked in a huddle, there was no way any of them were going to be able to just walk right in. Except for the Invisible Man, that is. After a couple hours of watching the ins and outs of the guards and comparing the floor plan to what they already knew of the interior of the building, Darien was ready for bed.

"It's gettin' late, Hobbesy." He scrubbed grit out of his eyes, the headache again pounding behind his temples. "I need to get some decent sleep if we're going to pull this off tomorrow."

"Not we." Hobbes said softly.

"What?"

"I was just along for the ride, today: you already said you'd work with Monroe." He didn't look over as he started up the van, jockeying for position around a double wide with Channel 42's logo on the side. "She's back now."

"Uh-uh." Darien negated, his heart speeding up so fast he had to use the biofeedback breathing to calm down or go involuntarily Quicksilvered. "You started this case with me, you damn well have to finish it. She wasn't here tonight, you were. When I want back up, I want the best."

"She's the one with the stars." He agreed, eyes on the road ahead.

"General-schmeneral. You're still the Colonel around here."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Four

 

"Well, gentlemen, how did it go last night?" The Official loomed over his desk like a whale cresting out of the water to vent his blowhole. Monroe lounged against the wall near his desk, no trace of fatigue left from her whirlwind globetrotting. She wore such a low-cut, tight, little tee her cleavage kept drawing Darien's attention every time she inhaled.

"Nothing Fawkes can't accomplish see-through." Hobbes assured, "We've both been on the tenth floor before, he just has to get in there and take a vial. Shouldn't take more'n a couple of minutes."

"You agree with that, Fawkes?" The Fat Man asked gruffly.

"Sure. The security they hired are all new, and aren't used to the place yet. I could even do it without the gland," Fawkes scoffed. "There's only the one main gate entrance. The rest of the fence is covered by video surveillance and they're so far apart, they all have blind spots. " He commandeered a chair, stretching out jeans clad legs, "Inside, unless they have some hidden cameras or something really high tech, it's like takin' candy from a baby. The offices weren't locked, none of that pass card crap…"

"We weren't able to drive all the way around the perimeter cuz of the guards, but Fawkes did a little invisible reconnoitering and there's a big loading dock in the back. If we have to surround the place, that's the side to hit hard. Easy to get in to the building once you're past the back gate. That one's electronic, though."

"Eberts." The Official called.

"Searching for an override code as we speak, sir." The blond man smiled a little secret smile. Darien watched absently to get his eyes off Monroe's balcony and chuckled, reminded of Henry Blake and Radar O'Reilly. Eberts was getting so he could read the Fish's mind.

"What about employees working late?" Alex asked shrewdly.

"Nobody will see me," Darien boasted.

"Full of yourself," She smirked.

"Why don't you come along and find out?" He challenged, so it sounded like his idea before Hobbes asked her first.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world." Monroe pursed her perfectly made up red lips. "We'll need surveillance equipment. That hat you wore with the camera in the logo should work well."

"I hate that hat." Fawkes groaned, "It makes me look like a geek."

"And that shirt doesn't?" She plucked at the vintage Hawaiian print shirt he wore. Real rayon with a pattern of Hula girls, pineapples and Tiki masks.

"That's a classic." Hobbes spoke up. Darien sat up in surprise, never expecting Bobby to come to the defense of his clothes. He was usually the one who started the ragging. "I'll be back in the van monitoring his input. You can be the go between, Monroe. This operation needs to be short and sweet."

When the phone rang, Eberts automatically answered, one hand still typing commands into the computer. "May I ask who's calling?" he responded politely. The voice on the phone surprised him, his light blue eyes widening. Lowering the receiver, Eberts put a hand over the mouthpiece. "It's Mr. Rechenko. He wants to speak to Agent Hobbes."

"Why?" Hobbes demanded suspiciously.

"Mr. Hobbes is otherwise engaged." Eberts lied smoothly. He'd recently become proud of his ability to act more like an agent and lying was one of the many talents he was trying to hone to perfection with Hobbes' help. His fair complexion was a definite draw back when trying to maintain a good falsehood, though. He listened to the lightly Russian accented voice for a few more minutes, then blinked and said, "I'll just put you on hold until he's available, then." He suited actions to words, placing the phone in the cradle. "He says he wants to meet with you at the Rouche lab."

"It's a trap!" Hobbes and Monroe said in one voice.

"Of course it is." Charlie Borden chuckled nastily, "So we'll go in prepared." He picked up the phone, pressing the hold button with authority. "This is Agent Hobbes' boss, what exactly is your plan?" Listening to the scientist, Borden nodded, memorizing the information in an instant. He rarely had need to write anything down and when he did, Eberts was always on hand. "Where and when?"

Waiting to know the outcome of the conversation, all three agents in the room showed signs of tension. Monroe tapped on the arm of her chair with agitation, clicking her French nails in a staccato rhythm that looked like it was just about driving Hobbes up a wall. Darien just about expected his partner to walk over and stop the noise, but he was apparently content with shredding a discarded sheet of paper into increasingly tiny pieces. Meanwhile, sweat began to trickle with annoying unpleasantness down between Darien's shoulder blades, dampening his Hawaiian shirt. Sprinkling the confetti he'd created into the garbage can, Hobbes glanced over at Fawkes with a look that said he was just about ready to snatch the phone out of the Fat Man's hand. Borden finally replied to whatever the answer to his questions had been with an emphatic, "It's agreed. He'll be there."

"Where?" Hobbes practically attacked the desk, his body vibrating with stress.

"When?" Monroe was right behind him, crowding the Official who waved them both off with a dismissive gesture.

"He wants a meet with Hobbes in his lab tonight, at nine thirty. Says most of the staff will be out by then, and he'll put you on the guard's lists."

"Did he say what he knows?" Alex challenged.

"Inside information, couldn't get him to say more than that." Borden frowned looking for all the world like Winston Churchill about to launch a pre-emptive strike on Germany. "No doubt his phone is tapped."

"Wait a minute." Fawkes stood. Now he was restless and agitated, "We already had a plan goin' here. If this is a trap, we should stick to what we started with. I should go."

"Why you?" Hobbes jutted out his chin like he wanted to start a fight.

"He knows me, too, and I can go in under the wire, invisible."

"No way." Hobbes chopped air with a stiff hand. "He asked for me, first! I'm the one he talked to back at the lab, I'm the one going in."

"What difference does it make, Hobbes? A few minutes ago we were talking about me sneaking in like a thief. Now I could waltz right in the front door, and you don't want me to go? Make up your mind." Fawkes retaliated, suddenly angry. "It's making my head hurt."

"This is a trap and you know it, Fawkes." Hobbes jabbed him in the chest the way he'd done when Fawkes was trying to sneak out of the desensitization class. Only this time it was a lot harder. "You're better than this. Think about it, he gets you in there and incriminates you somehow, making us look like a bunch of government thugs harassing the poor misunderstood Rouche. You'll be on your way back to prison in a heartbeat…"

"If I screw up is the Secretary gonna disavow all knowledge of me?" Darien asked sarcastically, "Or just you, man?"

"Can it, both of you." The Official's voice cracked like a whip silencing the entire room. "I agree with Fawkes. He goes in first, 10 minutes before the meeting time, invisible to scope things out."

"Rechenko asked specifically for me," Hobbes resisted stubbornly.

"At nine thirty, Agent Hobbes, you go in, walk past those guards like you own the place. That way we have two agents in place in case there's trouble but I want constant monitoring at all time." He banged a fleshy hand on the desk, "You'll wear a wire, Fawkes, so we can get some hard evidence on these bastards. And since there's no limit on your abilities anymore, stay out of sight the whole time."

Back to being the one-trick pony again, Darien thought with annoyance. "I just wait for Hobbes? No one-on-one with Rechenko?"

"Get that vial of venom if you can, but let Hobbes do the talking."

"While I cool my heels in the van?" Alex muttered.

"While you make sure there's back up." Borden leveled his gaze at her, "You were with the team yesterday, Agent Monroe, you damn well better be today."

"I do what I'm told to do, sir," Alex put an almost imperceptible sneer on the word. "It's only nine thirty in the morning now, we have plenty of time to work the kinks out of the plan before nightfall."

"Fine," Hobbes ground the word between his teeth. Fawkes felt like they were being ripped into pieces. One minute he and Hobbes were in the zone, the next in outer space. "Let's get at it, then."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_"Come into my parlor said the spider to the fly…" was never one of my favorite children's songs, but now it buzzed in my head, creating a cacophony of noise when it was joined with the "I hate spiders and snakes" song. I really need to buy some new CDs._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Naturally, it was one of those nights where any sane person would be curled up with a book or renting a movie instead of getting ready to infiltrate hostile premises. An unseasonable cold front had all the TV weather people talking about the flip side of El Nino. Stronger than average winds whipped around trees and telephone wires like mini tornadoes, and as they drove across the city Fawkes kept his eyes out for a witch on a bicycle and a squadron of flying monkeys. Maybe if Monroe wore a blue checked dress and pigtails, she could be Dorothy, which made him the scarecrow and Hobbes…? He was no longer sure whether Bobby was the Lion, all brave in the face of adversity or the great and mighty Oz himself, lots of hot air to hide his insecurities.

At night Rouche was lit up with floodlights that reflected weirdly off the mirrored walls. Which made it look like a cross between a movie premiere opening and the set for a horror film. Who knew what lay on the tenth floor?

Acknowledging that he was letting his imagination get way out of hand, Darien indulged himself because he'd been frazzled all day. Hobbes had vacillated between his old self and the new one with such unpredictability it was frightening. One minute he'd be sprouting the "be a Marine" lecture and the next Hobbes was staring at his younger partner as if he were dreading the unknown. Tension crackled through the offices of the Harding Building like white lightning. Monroe quickly had enough of Hobbes' schizoid behavior, barking orders like she was the one in charge. Not knowing who to follow, Fawkes just sat back and waited for the fireworks to begin.

They somehow never developed, both parties maintaining civility. As long as Fawkes didn't talk to either of them, he was just fine. He'd stick to the Fat Man's original script. Go in at nine twenty, take the lay of the land and then hang around to watch while Hobbes parleyed with Rechenko. Hopefully the guy had something real that they could take to the Attorney General and shut the monolithic cesspool down. They were only a small cog in the overall conglomerate, thus cutting down Rouche Pharmaceuticals West wouldn't make a dent in the bigger scheme of things, but it would feel damned good. If the Agency could stop them from production on the results of Rechenko's research, that would be enough for now.

"Here's your hat, the camera's all ready to go." Monroe pulled an ugly ski cap out of her carry all, handing it over with a flourish. Fawkes crouched in the back of the van crowded in between all her video hook ups and monitors.

"Why can't we get one of those kangaroo caps? That would look styling'." He complained to refocus his mind away from the fear that this was one big badness they were heading into.

"I thought it was the height of fashion for a cat burglar." She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow. Touché.

"Well, as Hobbes has so regularly pointed out lately, I'm not doin' that gig anymore." Darien shoved on the hat, looking over at his friend. Hobbes was still in the driver's seat, twisted around to watch the two in the back of the van, a perfect poker expression on his face.

"Good luck, Fawkes." Bobby said softly. "But it's not like you'll need it, you know your stuff."

Internally Darien thought, ' _God, be nice to me now?'_ Externally he simply nodded in Hobbes' direction and said gruffly,"See you in a few." Turning to Monroe, he asked, "Camera working?"

She turned on the monitor, revealing an image of herself as he could see her. All three were dressed in black, almost in uniform, black turtlenecks, slacks and shoes. Alex had accessorized with a black scarf tied around her long hair. She looked tough and competent and more than a little embarrassed to see herself on camera. "Get out of here, Fawkes." Alex snorted.

The wind tore at his leather jacket making him wish he'd worn the warmer one, but it wasn't black. Like the color really mattered because, as usual, no one would be able to see him. He hunched down in his coat to walk across the parking lot before going inside. Hobbes was going to drive the van up to the building just before the appointed hour, but it wouldn't look good to have him hovering outside for 15 minutes, so Darien was left to flat foot it.

The hardest problem was how to get inside without the guards noticing anything unusual. Although invisible he still had to use the door like everyone else. Just before the Rouche gates, Darien stepped behind a tree and stimulated the gland, feeling the familiar tingling coldness as the Quicksilver coated his entire body. Thus disguised, he crossed the huge, almost deserted lot at a trot. Most of the TV news vans had gone, and the guard in the little booth looked both bored and cold. Glad for the ski cap, Darien had to admit it did a good job of keeping his ears warm.

Why did they always encounter such unseasonable weather when they were working on a mission like this? He'd have welcomed some nice warm night to go skulking around in, just once.

"You reading me?" Fawkes asked quietly when he was within a few feet of the building. It was unaccountably weird not to be able to see himself reflected in those shiny mirrors.

"Loud and clear." Monroe's voice was tinny in his ear. "How're you going to get in?"

"Let me worry about that," Darien shushed. He was kind of worried about it though and had just about decided to go around the back to get in through the loading dock when Dr. Jeffries came through the lobby, bustling through the front door like he had places to go and people to see right now.

' _All right!'_  Darien crowed silently and grabbed hold of the door, keeping it open after Jeffries had gone through and sidled on in, the door practically smacking him in the ass as it shut. He didn't really relish the idea of climbing 10 flights of stairs, but it would look awfully suspicious if the elevators started going up and down by themselves. Walking soft shoed across that big checkerboard floor, he remembered how the footsteps had echoed the last time he'd been there, and he eased the stairwell door open just wide enough to get through.

 

"How's he doin'?" Hobbes asked, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. This wasn't right somehow, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was.

"Climbing stairs." Alex answered shortly. "You want to tell me why you're ripping him a new orifice lately?"

"Kid needs a push in the right direction. He needs to start up that ladder of success…"

"Away from you, you mean?" Alex narrowed her eyes, glancing away from the boring program of Fawkes climbing endless flights. The sign for the eighth floor flashed on the screen for a moment and the audio picked up his huffing breaths. "Far be it from me to tell you what to do, Hobbes, but Fawkes knows where he wants to be, and I don't think it's two rungs higher than where he is right now."

"He could work anywhere. He's not stuck at this piss-ant poor excuse for a spy shop any more." Hobbes stared off at the building. They were parked two blocks away, but the floodlights made Rouche visible for miles around. Strange the way it tried to blend in during the daytime and shouted out its existence at night. "The Company'd kill for an invisible spook like him."

"Yeah, they would, you're probably right," Alex agreed. "But I'll lay you odds Fawkes doesn't think so." She turned her attention back to the screen, centering her mind and focusing her energy on the night's events. "He's on the tenth floor now. Showtime."

Hobbes started up the van, letting it idle for a few minutes until it was time to drive into the lot. He could hear Monroe contacting the agents in the van parked one block behind them. Everything was in place.

Darien moved cautiously down the hall, but as Rechenko had said, there was nobody left on this floor. Not like anyone could see him, but he wasn't at all in the mood for surprises. Both labs, which had been bustling in mid-afternoon, were closed up and dark. Screeches and hoots from the lab monkeys tucked into their safe cages sounded spine-chillingly eerie in the dim hall. Down at the end, the door to the third lab was open, a thin shaft of light spilling out into the corridor. It looked exactly like Quicksilver in Darien's monotone version of the world.

Peeking inside, he didn’t see anyone. The room was cluttered with boxes and packing crates only partially unpacked. Stacked near the rear were a few tanks with snakes and a few lizards of some sort. The refrigerator where the stolen venom was kept hummed loudly in the otherwise silent room. Pulling open the big white door, Fawkes noted that the little rack of vials was missing. Who had taken it? Where was Rechenko? The good doctor didn't seem to be in evidence, but just to be sure he took a tour of the place, skirting boxes to walk around the central table. Broken glass crunched under his feet, a small pool of colorless liquid spreading out on the floor.

"He's in the lab," Monroe reported, watching the video feed from the camera in Darien's hat with rapt interest. "Nobody's there."

"I'm about to go in." Hobbes checked his watch. He was exactly on time. After parking the van in the closest space to the front of Rouche Pharmaceuticals, he scanned the vast lot for signs of hostile presence. "You talked to Heyes again?"

"They're in position just outside the gate." Alex nodded her head, wishing Fawkes wasn't moving his head so much. The picture constantly jumped and bounced up and down as he walked around the lab, but suddenly the picture froze.

"Oh, crap." Darien said distinctly, loud and clear over the audio link. It was the first time he'd spoken since he'd entered the building. His breathing sounded harsh and fast over the speakers. "Monroe, are you getting this?" he asked sounded scared.

"I see it." She hissed, "Hobbes, Rechenko's down, maybe dead."

Whipping his head around so fast he heard a vertebrae crack, Bobby starred at her. "Are you sure?"

"Fawkes, is there a pulse?" Alex asked into her mic. She watched a hand appear suddenly on the screen as the Quicksilver flaked off Darien's skin, and hover over the body of the handsome scientist. Rechenko lay curled on one side with one hand tucked up against his chest and the other reaching out for who knows what. Fawkes' long fingers pressed into the scientist's neck, palpating for a pulse.

"I got one, it's faint, but he's still alive." The body reacted to his touch, arching to frightening rigidity and then twitching spasmodically. Darien scooted back, his hand leaving the camera's picture.

"Try to bring him around." She urged, clenching her hands in frustration. She wanted to be there, at the scene, not relegated to the background, but this wasn't her case. "Hobbes, go!"

He was already out of the van and pushing through the front door. Plastering a fake smile on his face, Bobby sauntered up to the reception desk. "Here t'see Dr. Rechenko."

A different Asian receptionist from the one he'd met before eyed the balding man critically. Even standing behind the desk, the Asian was so short he made Bobby look tall. Hobbes straightened his spine, emphasizing the height difference.

"He expectin' you." The little man nodded towards the elevator.

Hobbes had to force himself to walk slowly when every instinct was screaming for him to run as fast as possible. Sirens were going off inside his head that something was seriously wrong on the tenth floor and he should never have let Fawkes go up there alone. He jabbed at the indicator button, willing the elevator doors to slide shut.

 "Dr. Rechenko?" Darien called, giving his shoulder a little shake. His head lolled to the side, but his eyes flickered briefly. Strange grimacing tics flickered across his face every once in a while that involuntarily bared his teeth. What had happened to him?

Once during his first term in Soledad, the Red Cross had come in and taught a bunch of the inmates CPR. Darien had never been sure of the logic of teaching prisoners the skill except maybe they thought it would come in handy during a prison riot or something. All of a sudden the lesson dropped back into his memory. A for airway. Tilting the injured man's head back elicited an instant response in the form of a gasping breath.

Good, that took care of B for breathing, too. Darien put his hand back down on Rechenko's neck, feeling that weak thrum of blood in the artery.

Suddenly, pain shot up from Darien's hand to his shoulder like mainlining battery acid. Red-hot lava was incinerating his veins. The whole upper right side of his body was in agony in a matter of heartbeats and he feebly tried to shake away the pain, but his hand was barely cooperating.

For all the years of keeping his distance from spiders, he'd never actually been bitten-until now. A nasty eight-legged freak was still attached to his hand, its fangs embedded in the rapidly swelling flesh. It was getting increasingly hard to think clearly but with some distant still functioning brain cells he recognized the hairy-legged thing as a Funnel Web.

_Double Crap._

This was bad.

With rapidly dwindling strength Darien grabbed the spider in his left hand and flung it across the room. It was now quite obvious what had happened to Rechenko. The spider had been hiding in the scientist's clothes after it bit him.

Claire's voice echoed in Darien's brain, "The bite is usually immediately painful and symptoms occur within a few short minutes." She didn't know how right she had been. The fang marks radiated agonizing pain as if thousands of needles were still injecting the deadly venom into his hand.

Cradling his wounded hand, Darien was startled to see Rechenko's eyes open. "J…jef…fries," he whispered, but Darien could barely hear him over the roaring in his ears from his own pulse.

He'd also forgotten about Monroe. Between trying to make out what Rechenko was trying to say and the shouting coming from the ear jack it took him a few moments to realize she was screaming his name.

"Fawkes!!!" Monroe repeated for the fifth time, ready to rip off her headphones and run full tilt into the building. She pressed her sweaty palms flat on the TV screen as if she could reach through to touch the horrible wound she could see on his hand. "Answer me!"

"I'm here, Alex." He managed, but even talking was difficult already. His heart was going so fast he could feel the Quicksilver encroaching over his left hand.

"I'm calling in the troops!" she said breathlessly, "Where's Hobbes? What happened?"

"I got bit." Fawkes replied as carefully as possible, focusing on the reddened punctures on the pinkie side of his right hand.

"Fawkes?" Hobbes' voice was sharp with concern. Already woozy, Darien didn't realize Hobbes was standing next to him until the shorter man touched his shoulder.

Darien had already decided what to do, remembering how he had cauterized the 'Fish's facial wound the year before to stop the spread of the Catavari's poison. Without a word he wrapped his cold, invisible left hand over the right one, freezing the bare skin on contact. Then he screamed.

 

~^~

 

Tucking her feet up under her on what Darien always termed the dentist's chair of torture, Claire nibbled on her favorite snack, a long twisted stick of red licorice, while pouring over the print out of Peregrine's research. She was engrossed in his meticulous notes, the elegant theories and the amazing conclusions he'd arrived at were stimulating her scientist's brain.

This could work, it really could. She just needed to tweak a few areas here and there. If she could convince the University to keep on Monprit, maybe even manage a grant to fund the project…? She chewed her licorice thoughtfully.

Better yet, a memorial fund in Peregrine's name for foreign-born students who would then promise to take the knowledge they'd obtained back to their countries of origin to spread the scientific discoveries. Surely someone would underwrite that. She'd take it upon herself to talk to Dr. Delphinium Byrd in the morning. She'd certainly be happy to have her brother remembered in such a noble way.

Glancing at the clock, Claire sighed. She always hated when the agents went out in the evenings. Most nights she just went home, tried to sleep, with her phone right next to her bed. Tonight, she kept meaning to go, but Hobbes had said they'd be completely done by 10 p.m., so she'd decided to wait. Make sure they got the venom back.

Make sure everyone got out safely. Who was she kidding? There were no longer any worries about Quicksilver madness, but she still dreaded the phone ringing when Hobbes, Darien and Alex were out on some dangerous assignment.

As if on cue, the phone rang, jumpstarting her heart. She closed her fingers around the plastic receiver, giving a brief prayer before picking it up.

"CLAIRE!" Bobby's voice assaulted her ear. "He's been bit, what do we do?!" He was bordering on hysteria and while Claire would have loved nothing better than to break down completely herself, she forced herself into a glacier calm.

"B-bitten by what?" she replied. No need to ask who 'he' was. It had to be Darien.

"The Funnel Web." Bobby had retrieved the little mangled corpse. Darien's throw had smashed it against the wall, but there was still enough left to recognize the killer arachnid.

"A tourniquet." Claire commanded, "Slow the progress of the poison and then get him out of there, fast!" She tried to remember if Cynthia had said they kept the anti-venom at UCSD.

"He's already taken care of that. He froze his hand." Hobbes kept one hand on his partner's shoulder, trying to comfort. Darien twitched uncontrollably with mini seizures and was sweating like he'd run a 5k marathon. "Where do we go?"

"He'll still need a tourniquet. Take him to the zoo. As fast as you can." Claire wished she could do a million different things at once but knew her place was to co-ordinate the team and get Darien medical help as quickly as possible. "They have the anti-venom there. I'll call the police to let you in, if necessary. He'll need more than one injection."

"We're leaving now! I'll call you back when we get there" Hobbes snapped his cell phone closed, wondering how he was going to get Darien up to walk back to the van.

"Fawkes." He used his best command voice, "You need to stand up with me, pal, c'mon, I can't carry you all the way back to the van. You gotta do it on your own."

With effort Darien slid his feet around in front of him. It was already so hard to breathe he had a hard time doing that and anything else at the same time. "Is…Rechenko…dead?" He asked not wanting it to be so. That meant he would be next.

"He'll be all right." Bobby said, lying through his teeth. Rechenko looked more dead than alive, but Bobby hadn't given him more than a moment's notice. "C'mon, up with you, big lug." Darien had managed to come unsteadily to his knees and attained his feet with a lot of support from Hobbes.

"Oh, god…Bobby, everything hurts." Darien groaned, pulling his right hand against his chest. "I…can't…"

"Yes, you can." Hobbes insisted, grunting under his partner's weight. They managed to make it around the lab table but there was no way he was going to be able to get Fawkes out into the hall and down to the elevator. He was too damned tall for Hobbes to carry for a long distance. He'd done it once before and nearly thrown out his back.

"Jef-fries left jus' b'fore I go' here." Darien muttered. "It was him…"

"No more talking and a lot more walking." Bobby panted, then spied a chair with rollers pushed up next to the computer terminal. "You're in luck, buddy boy, found you a ride."

"Tha's good, Hobbesy, I…love rides." Darien dropped weakly, coughing. He shivered with involuntary muscle spasms, breaking out in waves of goose-bumps and then rivers of sweat.

 

~^~ 

 

Alex Monroe held a pistol on the frightened Asian receptionist, keeping him still while Heyes and Curruthers stormed up to the elevator for the tenth floor. More Agency personnel were on their way and she had Golda's motor running for the rush to the zoo. All they needed was for Hobbes and Fawkes to get the hell down here. What was taking them so long?

Just as the other team had disappeared into the elevator, the second set of doors slid open and Hobbes came barreling through, pushing Darien in an office chair. Fawkes looked like death warmed over, his face pale, neck arched back with the effort to breathe.

"Took you long enough." Alex bitched because she didn't want to comment on how bad Fawkes already looked. It had been barely 10 minutes since she'd sat in horror, watching him get bitten on her video screen.

"Just drive!" Hobbes ordered, manhandling the almost unconscious Fawkes into the van. Golda fishtailed as Alex put on the speed, barreling out past the parade of cars streaming into the Rouche lot. "Monroe, give me that scarf." Pressing his back against the back of the van seats, he maneuvered Fawkes in between his legs to keep him safe on the wild ride.

Letting her dark hair fall loose, the woman handed over the black square of silk, keeping her eyes on the road. "That's Anne Klein."

"It's savin' his life." Hobbes wound the fabric around his best friend's arm, creating a strangely decorative tourniquet since the frozen area was warming up. Darien moaned in pain, trying to pull his arm away from the torment. "It's okay, pally." Hobbes soothed gently, "Everything's gonna be all right."

Except it wasn't. Deep down in his heart, Hobbes was afraid he'd ruined everything. Letting Fawkes go up there alone when they should have been a team. Together. Like…Starsky and Hutch. He couldn't shake from his memory the episode where Starsky almost died in his partner's arms from an unknown poison. "Hey, Fawkesy, I thought I always got to be Starsky. Hutch wouldn't leave his partner without a fight. Huh, buddy?" Hobbes tucked his arms around Darien's lanky frame, protecting him from rolling as Monroe whipped Golda around a tight curve. "You're not s'ppsed t'be the one who gets bit." Darien gave him a ghost of a smile, his chest heaving to pull needed oxygen into his lungs. They just had to get the anti-venom in time.

Driving with one hand, Alex used her cell to coordinate with Claire and the zoo officials to have the anti-venom ready for them upon arrival. Luckily there were zoo employees there after hours, or that would have been even more of a major hassle than it already had been. It was not the first time she'd used her vast connection of friends in high places to help the Agency, but with the exception of the time she'd helped free Bobby from the clutches of a mobster because of her acquaintance with the San Diego mayor, this was the most satisfying.

The van had barely stopped moving when a zoologist from the reptile department came running out to offer them hope. Bobby grabbed the proffered syringe, jabbing it into Darien's jugular with a practiced hand. It wasn't the first time he'd given an injection. He'd had lots of practice with the counteragent. Only this time he was giving him back his life not just his sanity.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"How's he doin?" Hobbes asked, his eyes never leaving the still form of his partner. Darien lay in the Agency's small infirmary, the soft sucking hiss of the ventilator loud in the quiet room. Hobbes was exhausted and he'd mostly been standing around for hours watching Claire work. She'd called in the per diem nurse with the necessary clearance who worked for them during crises and had enlisted Hobbes, Monroe, and Eberts to help with scut work, but most of the patient's care had fallen on the doctor's shapely shoulders. Now, there was a possible light at the end of the tunnel.

"He's stable, but it's still critical right now." Claire rubbed the grit out of her eyes, weary beyond belief. Hobbes had hauled the semi-conscious Darien into her lab 15 minutes after the impromptu injection at the zoo. Just in time for a second dose of antivenom. Luckily, the zoo vet had given Bobby five more vials of the stuff as back up, and Claire had administered another one immediately. "It's always difficult to judge how he will respond to treatments because of his unique blood chemistry."

After placing Fawkes on a ventilator to take over the work of breathing for his failing lungs, the blond doctor had worked ceaselessly through the night to stabilize his sky rocketing blood pressure and weakening heart. "He took a terrible jolt to his body. The venom is a powerful neurotoxin. Stops the sympathetic nervous system…the heart, breathing, swallowing…" She sighed, "Early administration of the anti-venom is essential. You saved his life, Bobby. Dr. Rechenko wasn't so lucky."

Heyes and Curruthers had brought the scientist in soon after Darien, but he was already comatose and had gone far too long without the initial dose of anti-venom. Despite an injection of the drug and frantic measures on Claire's part, the man had died only an hour after he'd come in.

"That was so close." Hobbes shoved his hands in his back pockets to hide their shaking. "Can't believe how this went down. Looks like Jeffries took off with the lot. He seemed like a feather-brained old geezer t'me."

"Rechenko's research is completely gone." Alex entered, staring gravely at the sick man in the hospital bed for a few moments, "The venom, too, except possibly for the broken vial we found near where Rechenko's body had fallen." She'd gone back to Rouche after delivering Darien into Claire's care to help search the labs. "I think there's enough there for you to test…determine that it's from Jasmine."

"I'll do my best." Claire agreed, getting herself a drink of water. How long had it been since she'd eaten or even gone to the bathroom?

"He'll be all right?"

"I think so, Alex, yes." Claire smiled at her.

"What's going on in the real world?" Hobbes asked, rubbing the back of his neck, feeling like he'd been in the basement of the Agency for a year instead of a night.

"We've still got agents at Rouche carting out evidence. As well as FBI, Customs, ATF…everybody. They were up to their knees in excrement." She arched her eyebrows with a mirthless laugh, "The Attorney General's going to have a field day. A lot more than just stolen venom…"

"Crap." Hobbes tugged the blanket up higher under Darien's chin, looking at the unconscious man tenderly. "He saw him leave, y'know?"

"Yes." She agreed. She'd already printed up the image off her video monitor to use for the All Points Bulletin.

"Fawkes told me just before he stopped talking." Hobbes rubbed the soft nap of the polar fleece blanket between his thumb and finger, triggering ancient memories of childhood blankies and chocolate chip cookies. "I figure he was in that dark sedan we saw pull out of the lot."

"2LSX235," Alex rattled off. Hobbes had automatically called out the license plate as it had passed and she'd memorized it. "Hasn't been seen at the airport or the train station so far."

"The same car that ran down Peregrine?" Claire asked in astonishment.

"Don't think so," Alex answered, "But I'll go nudge Eberts, make sure he's started on the wants and warrants…" Hobbes was no longer paying any attention to her, his focus on the pale figure in the bed.

"I screwed up, didn't I?" He asked, smoothing the blanket one last time.

"If you hadn't been there, he would have died." Claire rubbed his black sweatered arm. "You saved his life."

"If I hadn't been there…I almost bailed on him. Claire. And I always said I wouldn't ever do that…." His chest was in a vice remembering how close he'd come to abandoning their partnership. Their friendship. During the imterminable and hellish night, he'd finally realized he'd been feeling threatened by Fawkes' growing competence as an agent. The irony of that, after spending two years helping the kid get ahead in the game, was not lost on him. "Screwed up big time and I hope like hell I get to fix things."

"You will, Bobby." Claire enclosed him in a hug from behind, her arms briefly clasping his waist. Laying her chin on his shoulder she both gave and received comfort. "Darien isn't about to give up on you. Don't you dare give up on him."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag

 

_Boring._

Darien flung an outdated "People" magazine onto the floor next to his bed, the pile of rejected books and crosswords testimony that he was feeling better enough to be bitchy and out of sorts. He'd been cooped up in the tiny Agency hospital bed for four days now and while he wasn't ready to go one-on-one with Hobbes in the boxing ring, he was ready to be out of confinement.

"Hey, partner, how're you doing?" Hobbes came in, a hopeful smile on his face, arms loaded down with bags.

"Okay." Darien replied, his throat still ragged and sore from being ventilated for two days. He widened his eyes at the other man's neat dark suit and maroon tie. "Dressed up t'come visit me, Hobbesy? I'm flattered."

"Dr. Byrd's funeral." Hobbes arranged his purchases on a small rolling table.

"Wondered where everyone was this morning."

"Very moving." He loosened his tie, peering into the bags for the correct item. "They released a flocka birds while they were lowerin' the body into the grave."

"Falcons?" Fawkes guessed.

"No, doves."

"That doesn't make any sense."

"You want a bunch of predators flying around downtown San Diego?" Hobbes smirked, "Claire and Alex went over to the gathering they were havin' after the funeral with the lady Dr. Byrd."

"That's nice of them, whatcha got?"

"Stopped off to get you a coupla things." Hobbes handed over a huge juice cup with a jaunty logo on the side.

"Jamba Juice?" Darien grinned, taking a long pull on the straw. The orange juice concoction tasted faintly of strawberries and maybe coconut.

"With extra vitamins and protein powder." Hobbes shook his finger, "Get you on the road to recovery so's you can get back where you belong."

"Look, Hobbes…" Darien sighed. He was in for another lecture about how he deserved better than the Agency and should move on to where he was appreciated for more than just a gland in his head.

"And strangest thing," Hobbes stopped for a moment to take a swallow of his Starbucks French Java blend, "There was a thrift store next to the juice place. I just poked in and there it was, your name practically written on the cover." He placed a vintage "Mad" magazine on the bed, flipping open the pages to a cartoon with two pointy nosed spies holding bombs. "Some things are just meant to be, I guess, what d'ya think, partner?"

"Partner?" Fawkes grinned, his dark eyes meeting the smaller man's. "No more solo?"

"Gotta keep you outta trouble, my friend."

"Me?" Darien drank some more of the thick smoothie, it went down soothingly on his sore throat. "I didn't do anything."

"You kept your head, more'n I was doin'."

"Yeah, well I figured you were about due for some payback for all the times I went off on you." Fawkes grinned shyly, remembering an unfortunate incident where he'd tried to kill Hobbes. Bobby telling him to get lost hardly equaled. "You think that old coot killed Rechenko?"

"A spider killed the doctor, like it nearly killed you." Hobbes stopped, unwilling to bring up the emotions that had assaulted him that night. "And that old coot turns out to be a major player." He made a disgusted noise, then swallowed more coffee. "Eberts keeps uncovering more dirt on the guy. He's behind a lot of stuff you don't even want to know about."

"And he's gone?"

"Disappeared into thin air." Hobbes snapped the fingers of both hands like a magician. "Poof. Almost as invisible as you, pal."

"Think someone helped him? Someone who wanted that research?" Darien swirled his cup, watching the orange fluid swirl like a mini whirlpool.

"SWRB." Hobbes nodded, "Fat Man's convinced."

"So, somewhere out there, he's concocting that crud?"

"Looks like it."

"But we don't know where he is."

"It's just a matter of time, my friend." Hobbes tried to sound convincing, "We're onto him now, and we'll be watching for that pain trigger drug. He's on our radar screen."

Major depression nearly settled on the two men, but the arrival of two out-of-breath women lightened the atmosphere.

"Good afternoon, Darien!" Claire greeted gaily. While the funeral had been a sad experience, it had helped her say good-bye to an old friend and introduced her to a new one. Dr. Delphinium Byrd had been greatly cheered by Claire's ideas for a memorial fund and had immediately gotten to work wording the proposal. "Give me a minute, Alex," the blonde doctor said before disappearing down the hall to the lab. "Need to feed Jasmine."

"Looks like you two are having a party." Alex observed. "We brought you a few leftovers from the repast."

"What?" Darien asked eagerly, happy for the distraction.

"Cookies. The University put on quite a spread, and Claire thought you'd like a little change from convalescent food." Alex placed a small bakery box on the table next to Bobby's bags. "Mostly oatmeal. Apparently, funeral goers prefer chocolate chip."

"More for me." Darien dug into the box to find one of the treats. "Thanks, Monroe."

"I just carried the box." She shrugged, kicking off the proper funeral shoes she'd been wearing.

"Like you just drove the van," Fawkes nodded, flexing the fingers on his bandaged right hand. It still hurt, a lot. He had little memory of the race to the zoo, but Monroe and Hobbes' voices had kept him calm when his whole body was falling apart.

"Part of the team, Fawkes. The third wheel."

"Only way a tricycle can roll, Monroe." Hobbes offered her a cookie, but she declined, a grateful look in her beautiful eyes.

"Claire and I just stopped off to get her things, we're going over to the gym."

"Hey, there's a chocolate chip in there after all." Hobbes discovered after shifting through the remainder in the box. He took a big satisfying bite.

"All ready. Jasmine's devouring a little shrew." Claire reappeared with her gym bag over her shoulder. The other three made gagging noises at the idea of the pale snake ingesting a rodent. Hobbes briefly considered not finishing his cookie, but it was only a momentary hesitation.

"I'm really going to enjoy having the Taipan around. Australia has such a wealth of unusual fauna," Claire chattered. "Did you know that one third of all the poisonous snakes in the world come from that one continent?"

"I'm  _really_  glad you didn't tell me that before I went over there." Alex made a face. "You keep those snakes all cozy in their tanks and out of the other offices, won't you?"

"I'd really like to get my hands on an Olive Seasnake." Claire waved at her patient, "Don't eat too many cookies, Darien, I'll be back in an hour to give you your shots."

"Can't wait, take your time!" Darien defiantly took another cookie before they were all gone.

"It's one of the most poisonous snakes in the world." Claire continued as the women left, "For Monprit's research, naturally…"

"Naturally." Alex said dryly.

"Want I should go out and rent a couple of movies, Spiderman?" Hobbes asked.

"No more web slinging for me. I hung up my wall climbing shoes a long time ago, man." Darien raised his Jamba Juice left handed, knocking the cup gently against his partner's Starbucks one. "I'm a spy now."

"So you are." Hobbes agreed.

 

 

End


	4. All in the Family (season 3, episode 4)

Episode Four

**All in the Family**

 by Suz, with Mardel

And thanks to pip, our resident New Yorker, for her descriptions of local color. Any discrepancies with reality are the fault of the author, and are the result of willful disregard of her consultant's attempts to make her toe the line.

 

Teaser

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"C'mon, Hobbesy, we're gonna miss the previews," Darien Fawkes called out from in front of the hall mirror in his partner's entryway. He pulled randomly at his still damp hair, trying to get it to stand up again in its usual spikes after a day spent at the local water park. Unfortunately, most of the gel had long since washed out, and his efforts could not be deemed an unqualified success. He eyed the result critically.

"Keep your shirt on, partner," Bobby Hobbes yelled back from his upstairs bedroom. "I been sloshing around in wet shoes for the last four hours. I am  _not_  going to sit through a James Bond double feature with feet like prunes," he protested.

Fawkes sighed long-sufferingly. Still, missing the trailers for coming attractions was a small price to pay to ensure a little quality bonding time with his partner. There had been a few recent bumps in what had up till then been a smooth working relationship, and Darien was at pains to make sure his diminutive partner was clear on his importance both to Darien himself, and to the nameless federal agency that employed them. As the head of the cash-strapped operation regularly reminded Fawkes, the bulk of its assets was tied up inside Darien's skull in the form of the $17 million biosynthetic gland placed there experimentally some two years previously, and in spite of recent increases in cash flow, those improvements had yet to trickle down to the rank and file in the form of a raise for Hobbes. He was still working on how to use his current leverage with Charles Borden, head of said Agency, to wangle that particular perk for his partner.

Idly, Darien willed the Quicksilver into place along one hand and used the super-cooled semi-fluid metallic-looking coating to try and chill some semblance of order into his wilting hairstyle. With the aid of the icy touch of his fingers, his hair stiffened up nicely. He hoped there was still enough gel left in the medium brown strands to hold things in place once the hair unfroze and dried.

"You ready yet?" he called out, tweaking a last strand into place. "Geeze. This is worse than waiting for a date," he continued under his breath.

"I heard that," was Hobbes response as he materialized at the bottom of the stairs without warning. It never ceased to impress Fawkes just how silently his partner could move when it suited him. "And how would you know, lover boy? It's been what, two and a half years since your last date?" he ribbed his socially stunted partner. "Can you even remember that long ago?"

"Ha, ha, ha, Hobbes. Very funny. It has  _not_  been two and a half years, and who is it that coulda changed clothes six times in the time it took you to change shoes, huh?" Fawkes retorted good-humoredly.

"Yeah, and who is it that's been standing in front of my hall mirror all that time primping like a peacock, Mr. Head-Shot?" Hobbes chuckled, referring to his partner's brief stint as a model for a local hair salon. Darien knew Bobby had a hard time resisting the opportunity to tease him about his minor brush with stardom since Hobbes had first found out about it the year before. "You're lookin' a little droopy there, pal," Bobby continued, ribbing Darien about the hairstyle he agonized over every morning. In Hobbes' oft-voiced opinion, it looked like a badly trimmed hedge, even under the best of circumstances, and now, in the aftermath of a day in the sun and water, it was decidedly past its prime.

Any response Darien was considering was interrupted by the ringing of Hobbes' phone. "Crap," he said as his partner started into the living room to answer it. "Hobbes, c'mon, let the machine get it, alright? We're late already!" he complained unhappily. It was one thing to be late for the previews, and another to miss the opening teaser in one of the Bond extravaganzas. He sighed heavily.

Hobbes hesitated, pausing halfway between his partner and the ringing phone, when the answering machine picked up, as it was designed to, on the third ring. He shrugged, content to let technology handle things and started back to the front hall as his recorded greeting was broadcast out of the small answering machine speaker.

Darien had already started towards the front door when the caller's voice followed, so he was unprepared for Hobbes' response to the distinctly feminine voice that issued forth. Only the flash of movement out of the corner of his eye gave him any warning that his partner's agenda had just changed as abruptly as the weather in Hawaii.

"Bobby? If you're there, pick up. It's Becky." In the brief pause before she continued, Hobbes threw himself across the room towards the phone, snatching up the receiver. "Bob…?" was the last thing Fawkes heard before his partner's hissed answer.

"Rebecca, get the hell off my phone," Hobbes snarled, only his inflection giving Darien any clue as to his state of mind. "Whatever it is you want, forget it. I don't have anything to say to any of you. Got it?"

The open hostility in Hobbes' voice caught Darien off-guard. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd heard his partner raise his voice to a woman. Chivalry was Bobby Hobbes' middle name, generally, even under extreme provocation, so the anger that stiffened his smaller partner's frame made Fawkes stare in astonishment.

"I don't want to know, whatever it is. Do  _not_  call me again. Are you hearing me?" Hobbes continued after a very brief pause in which he was obviously listening to the woman on the other end of the line. " _No_. I don't give a rat's ass what you want. Whatever it is, forget it. I don't owe any of you anything. Period," he snapped and slammed the receiver unceremoniously into the cradle, standing beside the table that held the phone for a split second as he closed his eyes and visibly took a deep breath, attempting to regain control of his temper.

"What, you have a stalker?" Darien joked, attempting to lighten the suddenly thunderous atmosphere. "When were you gonna let me in on the latest Hobbes conquest?" he teased.

He was unprepared for his partner's reaction. Only the fact that Hobbes himself had been overseeing his training in hand-to-hand combat allowed Darien to dodge the reflex blow that Hobbes launched at him. He caught Hobbes' arm at the bicep and let the smaller man's momentum swing them in a half circle around their shared center of gravity. "Whoa-whoa-whoa there, tiger! I was  _kidding_! Man. She must be some piece'a work to get you going like this," he added, carefully humorous. Hoping to jolly his partner into a smile, he added, "So you gonna tell me who she is, this mystery woman?"

Instead, Hobbes glared at him, then made an obvious effort to relax. Shaking off Fawkes' grip on his arm, he turned and stepped towards his front door. "We're late. You comin' or what?" he asked gruffly without looking back over his shoulder, opening his front door and stepping out as the phone began to ring again.

Fawkes cast a look at the shrilling phone and hesitated a mere moment before shrugging and following his partner out of the condo and into the early evening dusk.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

::Cue Theme Music::

**There once was a tale about a guy who could turn invisible. I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me. OK, so here's how it works: There's this stuff called 'Quicksilver' that can bend light. My brother and some scientists made it into a synthetic gland, and that's where I came in. See, I was facing life in prison and they were looking for a human experiment. So we made a deal; they put the gland in my brain, and I walk free. The operation was a success... but that's when everything started to go wrong.**

::Music Fade Out::

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Act One

 

_You know, family is a strange thing. Now, I only had one brother, Kevin, and he and I didn't always get along. In fact, we didn't speak to each for years before he decided to spring me from jail to be his own private guinea pig for his pet project, the invisibility gland. And since my dad split when I was five, and my mom died before I reached double digits, well, I guess I thought I had a monopoly on the whole dysfunctional family thing. You know, like the Bible says," A man's foes shall be they of his own household." It never even occurred to me that Hobbes might know a thing or two about that saying as well...._

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Darien arrived at work late the following morning to report in to Claire, his Keeper, who had been keeping a closer eye on him than usual after his run-in two weeks previously with a particularly nasty venomous spider. It had put him in the Agency's version of the hospital for the better part of a week while she administered a series of anti-venom shots and generally told him how lucky he was to have survived. It was only because his partner had acted with preemptive speed that things hadn't been a great deal worse.

Still, he was on limited duty while he recovered from the neuro-toxin and the damage it had caused muscles and nerves. Duty that at the moment consisted largely of trying to stay out of the way while agents like his partner got the real work done. He poked his head into the main lab to find Claire bent over a microscope as usual, trying to take notes without looking at the paper she was writing on.

"Hey-ya, Keepy," he called a greeting and headed for the caramel brown Naugahyde administering chair that stood in the center of the lab. A hold-over from the recently by-gone days when he received regular injections of the counteragent that had kept him on this side of sane, he could now plop himself into it without any of the aversion that had attended his sitting there previously. Overall, a vast improvement in things.

"Good morning, Darien," she returned the greeting without looking up from her work, the British accent mellower than usual this morning. Darien smiled to himself. If his Keeper was in a good mood, than it probably meant some piece of research was going particularly well. And since most of what she researched involved finding a safe way to remove the gland from his brain, Claire in a good mood put  _him_  in a good mood. She finished whatever it was she was doing and looked up, smiling at him. "You're actually starting to look like yourself again," she commented, eyeing him approvingly.

"Nothing like taking a week off and hangin' with your pals to put the color back in the ol' cheeks," Fawkes replied cheerfully. "Hey, you seen Hobbes around this morning?"

Claire rose gracefully from her stool and caught up her stethoscope as she approached her patient. "No, I haven't," she admitted, a certain amount of surprise in her voice. Robert Hobbes was inclined to drop in on her many mornings with coffee or some sort of caloric treat and engage in a little casual flirtation prior to the arrival of his younger partner. She had come to enjoy those small interruptions and had missed their usual chat.

"Hmm. I guess I kept him out past his bedtime or something," Darien speculated, shoving his t-shirt sleeve up to allow Claire to wrap the blood pressure cuff around his bicep.

Claire laughed slightly. "What sort of trouble were the two of you getting into  _this_  time?" she asked as she pumped up the cuff.

"Why do you always assume it's  _my_  fault we get into trouble?" Darien asked, aggrieved, then laughed. "Okay, this time, we did what Hobbes wanted. We went to Mammoth Waterslides, then did a Bond double feature," he admitted.

Claire cocked an eyebrow at him as she released the last of the pressure in the cuff, then thrust a thermometer into Darien's mouth. "And what are the chances that you actually  _paid_  your way into either of those activities?" she inquired archly.

"Hmphrumphump," was Fawkes' unintelligible reply.

Claire smiled smugly. "I'll take that as 'slim and none'," she teased as she inserted the stethoscope earpieces into her ears, then settled the bell over his heart. "Hmm, nice and steady," she complimented as she straightened, removing the stethoscope from her ears. "No lingering cardio-pulmonary effects," she informed him, smiling as she slipped the thermometer out of his mouth. "Normal here, too," she added. "Okay, Darien, you're free to go find some sort of trouble to get into," she released him.

"Man, talk about lack of faith," Fawkes grinned back at her, getting out of the chair.

"On the contrary, Darien, I have the utmost faith in you," she said primly. "Your unerring ability to get into mischief is well documented by this time. Now go," she shooed him towards the door of the Keep. "Some of us have work to do," she added amusedly when he glared over his shoulder at her as the steel panel slid back into place between them.

 

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"Hey, Eberts? You seen Hobbes around this morning?" Darien asked when he had finished his search for his partner and drawn a blank. "He's not in his office, not in the Keep, and no one's seen him since early this morning," he concluded, settling a hip against the edge of Eberts' desk as he eyed the Official's assistant expectantly.

"Ah, Darien. Yes, actually, I saw Robert this morning shortly after I arrived. He was in a meeting with the Official at the time," was the distracted response as Eberts keyed information into his computer with intense focus.

"Yeah, and?" Fawkes urged after the silence stretched into several moments.

"And what?" Eberts inquired, vaguely perplexed as he looked up from his computer monitor.

"What did they talk about? I mean, did the chief send Hobbesy off on some hush-hush need-to-know mission? What?"

"I haven't any idea, Darien," Eberts said shortly. "And even if I did, I certainly wouldn't be at liberty to tell you, if indeed he  _was_  given an assignment."

Fawkes frowned. "After all the action we've seen together lately? C'mon, you owe me better than that," he complained, a whine edging into his tone as he cast a wounded look at the younger agent. "We're buds, man!"

"When it suits  _you_ , we are," was Eberts reserved observation. "Usually when you are in need of certain information that is most readily accessible by myself. I'm afraid your presumption of friendship is exactly that: a presumption. We are coworkers, Darien. Not bosom buddies." he added, the trace of cynicism unmistakable. "I am reluctant to put myself in a position for you to take advantage of me again after that incident in the Official's office following our return from Tijuana," he continued disapprovingly.

"You still upset about that?" Darien asked, affecting a wounded expression, brown eyes earnest and woebegone. "That was almost a month ago!"

"Yes, but I am still having to work out some means to account for the bill you presented to us with fees for the 'rental space' of your cranium for the last two years," was the disappointed reply. "I mentioned that in confidence, and under the influence, Darien. And you turned it against me."

"No I didn't, Eberts, I turned it against that fat Machiavelli who runs this place. And it was one hell of an idea, pal. Next time we go out drinking, I owe you a round," Darien defended himself.

"Darien. We don't  _go_  out drinking," Eberts pointed out flatly.

"So let's start," Fawkes suggested with a grin. "C'mon, Eberts, even you've gotta get tired of sitting around playing with your Nintendo, or whatever it is you do with your nights," he teased gently. "Why not come out with Bobby and me some time?"

The expression on the Executive Assistant's face was a mixture of wary disbelief and reluctant pleasure. "I doubt Agent Hobbes would approve of the invitation," he said finally, wariness winning out.

"Oh, don't let Hobbesy scare you. I'll protect you, don't worry," Fawkes grinned. "So what about it? Next time Bobby and I hit the bars, wanna come along?"

Eberts contemplated this, clearly wrestling with past experience. "I'll consider it," he said at last.

"Good enough," Darien nodded. "So… Where'd the boss send Hobbes?" he asked after a minute.

Eberts sighed. "I'm afraid you'll have to ask the Official," he answered. "I wasn't privy to the details of the conversation."

Fawkes frowned. "He in?" he asked, rising to his feet and ambling towards the door that led to the hall and the most direct route from Eberts' office to that of the Official.

Eberts jumped up from his desk and hustled after Fawkes trailing after him down the hall, futily snatching at him to make him pause. "Darien, you can't go in there - he's in the middle of a meeting!" Eberts protested anxiously, trying to prevent the lanky agent's intrusion on one of the Official's private morning rituals.

"Sure I can," Darien smiled, opening the Official's door and stepping through with a perturbed Eberts still trying to stop him.

"Morning, Chief," he greeted his employer cheerfully, ignoring the hot white towel that was wrapped around much of the Official's face.

The Official sat up from his semi-reclined position. "Eberts, what's the meaning of this interruption?" he demanded of his hapless assistant.

"I'm sorry, sir, I did try to stop him -" Eberts responded unhappily.

"Oh, don't mind me, Chief," Darien smiled, eyes sparkling impishly as he flopped into one of the two chairs that faced the Official's desk. "Go on with the facial," he grinned, leaning back in his seat.

Even largely obscured under the towel, the scowl on the jowly face of Charles Borden was impossible to miss. Refusing to let one of his junior agents fluster him, he leaned back in his chair, resting his head against the headrest and closing his eyes. "Eberts," he commanded, and his assistant nodded, reaching into one of the drawers on the left hand side of the Official's desk and lifting out a tray of barber's accessories. He dutifully took up the shaving brush and rubbed it into the cake of soap, working up a generous lather. When he was finished with that stage of the operation, he carefully unwrapped the towel from the Official's face and began applying the lather with small professional-looking swirls around the fleshy jaw.

Fascinated, Fawkes eyed the proceedings with amazement. "Man, Eberts, is there anything you don't do for him?" he asked in disbelief.

Eberts reloaded the shaving brush and raised an eyebrow at Darien across space between the desk and the chair Fawkes sat in, not bothering to dignify this with a response.

"Agent Fawkes, what do you want?" Borden asked shortly.

"Not much, boss. Just to know where my partner is," Darien answered, settling in to watch the rest of the Official's morning shave. It lacked something as a spectator sport, but still, these glimpses into the daily routine of the ranking officer of the Agency were enlightening, to say the least. There might even be blackmail potential in this latest example…

"He requested a leave of absence this morning," Borden said gruffly, eyes still closed as Eberts swapped the shaving brush for a dangerous-looking straight razor.

Darien's eyes widened. "You gave him a vacation?" he asked, delighted.

"I said a 'leave' Darien. Not a vacation. He had personal business that he needed to attend to."

"Personal business? Like what?" Darien frowned.

"Personal as in none of  _your_  business, " was the Official's brusque response.

"He's my partner," Darien wheedled. "His business  _is_  my business."

The Official opened one eye to glower at Fawkes. "Then I suggest you take it up with him," he snapped and closed his eye again, relaxing into his chair as Eberts proceeded to wield the straight razor with deft confidence and an economy of movement that spoke of long practice.

Darien watched the barbershop activities a moment longer, then unfolded his long body from the chair and strode to the office door. "I'll just do that," he said as he stepped out into the hall.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien pulled up in front of Hobbes' building a short while later. He didn't see any sign of Golda in the vicinity, which in and of itself wasn't a surprise, but the battered butterscotch-colored van hadn't been in the Agency parking lot, either. Which meant that wherever Hobbes had gone, he'd used the van to get there. Darien fished his keys out of a pocket as he rode the elevator up to Hobbes' floor and let himself into the quiet condo. As usual, everything was neatly in its place. Hobbes was somewhat obsessive about housekeeping, primarily because it allowed him to instantly see if anyone had been rifling his things.

Hobbes was the first to admit he tended towards the paranoid in his view of the world, but given what little Darien actually knew about his partner's past history, it wasn't that much of a surprise. In fact, Fawkes was willing to concede that it was even justifiable - to a point. It was that concession that allowed him to ride out Bobby's more obsessive character traits on an even keel. Most of the time, he didn't let it bother him that Hobbes exhibited many of the classic symptoms of OCD, ADD and manic depression. Most of the time, medication controlled the worst of it. And when it didn't, it was generally because Hobbes' instincts, honed over 18 years in the intelligence business, were being triggered by something. Something that more often than not turned out to be legitimate. Hobbes' skills were extraordinary; Darien had witnessed them in action more than once. The incident in which Bobby had been the first to spot the false Eberts, when Arnaud de Fohn had impersonated him to penetrate the Agency's safeguards and retrieve Claire's research on the Quicksilver gland, was only one of a whole series of similar examples Fawkes could recite without thinking.

Given the way Hobbes had reacted to his mysterious caller the afternoon before, Darien elected to start with the answering machine. He hit each of the three voice mail box keys only to be thwarted by an electronic voice announcing 'you have no new messages'. Frustrated, he scanned the machine for a tape, discovering in the process it was digital. Which, if his recent brush with computer competence during his Agent training was of any use, told him the last several messages left on the machine were still there, stored in the electronic memory of the integrated circuit until a new message was recorded over them. He gnawed his lower lip thoughtfully, then picked up the phone and dialed *69, only to be told that there was a block on the caller's identity.  _So much for the easy answer_ , he thought wryly.

He unplugged the machine and placed it on the front hall table, then trotted upstairs to investigate Hobbes' bedroom. While he wasn't particularly conversant with his partner's wardrobe, it did appear that several items of clothing were missing, along with what he assumed was a suitcase, based on the size of the gap on the top shelf of the closet. He stood eyeing the contents of the closet contemplatively. "Where'd you go, Hobbesy?" he muttered to himself, "and why the heck didn't you tell me you were leaving?"

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Perhaps an hour later, Eberts was once again interrupted by Darien's entrance into the office. He sighed as Darien dropped a small answering machine on the desktop.

"So how do I find out who called?" Fawkes inquired, the imperative in his voice making it clear that help was expected and reluctance would not be acceptable.

Eberts picked up the machine and plugged it back in hurriedly. "Well, if disconnecting the power hasn't automatically wiped the memory, then we can use one of the standard FBI decryption methods to access the information stored on the integrated circuit and play it back. Of course, you  _will_  need the appropriate court order," he pointed out.

"Oh, give me a break, Eberts. It's Hobbes' machine. I don't need a court order," he protested.

"I'm afraid you do. Listening to someone else's messages is an invasion of privacy. And I question the wisdom of removing the machine from Robert's home, from a legal standpoint."

Darien put his hands on his hips, regarding Eberts with annoyance. "Look. I can't explain how I know, but I think Bobby's in trouble, and I think the reason is on this machine. He's my partner. It's my job to watch his back."

"Darien, I sympathize with your reasoning, but legally -"

" _Legally_? Like half of what we do isn't as shady as anything I ever did when I was a thief? Eberts, when Bobby and I stopped by his place last night, he got a call. From a woman. When he heard who it was, he practically fell all over himself trying to get to the phone to answer it. I don't think he wanted me to know what it was she had to say, okay? But he was pissed. Big-time angry. With a woman. Now tell me you've ever heard him go off on a member of the fairer sex." He eyed Eberts expectantly.

"Aside from Agent Monroe?" Eberts muttered, peering up at the taller agent worriedly.

"Yeah, aside from her," Darien agreed impatiently.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

It took the better part of an hour to find the right piece of electronics to allow them to play back the memory chip in Hobbes answering machine, but when they did, it became readily evident not only where Hobbes had gone, but why.

Eberts hit the rewind and watched the voice print squiggle its way across his computer monitor for the third time. "Robert was certainly upset by the call," he agreed as the phone conversation Darien had overheard was replayed again.

"Bobby? If you're there, pick up. It's Becky." A pause, then,"Bob-?" from the woman.

"Rebecca, get the hell off my phone. Whatever it is you want, forget it. I don't have anything to say to any of you. Got it?" came Hobbes' clearly agitated response.

"Bobby, Charlie's gone missing -" the woman began, clearly frustrated with Hobbes' refusal to listen.

"I don't want to know, whatever it is. Do  _not_  call me again. Are you hearing me?" Bobby interrupted angrily.

"Look, I know how you feel about the rest of us, but- "

" _No_. I don't give a rat's ass what you want. Whatever it is, forget it. I don't owe any of you anything. Period," was Hobbes final word on the subject before the unmistakable racket of the receiver being noisily couched in the cradle ended the call.

Fawkes and Eberts exchanged wry looks and the soft electronic tone that signaled the end of the recording chimed through Eberts' speakers. The next message began to play.

"Bobby? It's Rebecca. Please pick up…." There was a longish pause, then she continued, resignedly. "Look. I know how you feel about things, but this is Charles we're talking about. I know you have your differences with the rest of us, but cousin Charlie and you, well, I thought you might be able to help find him. Call me, please? 718 555-6532. Got that? 555-6532. Please? For Debbie's sake?

Again the soft electronic chime sounded, and again, it was the mysterious Rebecca, leaving another plaintive message.

It was the last call in the chip's memory that gave Fawkes the information that he really needed, however.

"Robert? It's Maggie Lynch," came a new female voice, this one that of an older woman. "Your sister Rebecca asked that I call you to request that you consider coming home." There was a brief pause as muffled voices conversed, then she continued. "Your cousin Charles has disappeared and his wife Deborah is understandably worried… Becky hoped you might be able to use some of your connections to help locate him." There was another brief pause before she continued, and when she did, the formal tension in her voice had eased, replaced by unmistakable sadness. "I also wanted to let you know that they finally identified some of Jack's remains," came the next statement." We'll be holding the memorial service at St. Ignatius on Tuesday. I would really be grateful if you could find it in your heart to attend," she concluded. "Please call me… You have the number."

Fawkes frowned. "I wonder who Maggie is?" he mused aloud, staring absently into space as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"I believe I can answer that question," Eberts said and he keyed a series of commands into his computer.

Darien moved to peer over the assistant's shoulder as Bobby's employee records came up, watching as Eberts scrolled rapidly through the electronic file until he reached the next-of-kin and emergency contact information. Darien was startled to see his own name under the 'Who to contact' category.

"Oh, I'd forgotten that he updated this last year," Eberts muttered under his breath and rapidly keyed in a new command.

Images flashed by so rapidly there was no telling what Darien was looking at, but at least Eberts seemed to know. After several minutes of fruitless searching, Eberts frowned. "Hmm. Well, it seems we'll have to check the archives," he said, rising to his feet and leading the way out of his office.

Fawkes followed obediently. "What are we looking for?" he asked as Eberts unlocked the door to the basement archives.

"Robert's emergency contact information from the FBI, or perhaps the CIA," Eberts informed him and he wrestled one of the many dusty and dilapidated cardboard boxes containing all the records the Agency had on Robert Hobbes off the metal shelf, handing it to Fawkes.

Darien sighed dejectedly. "Gotta love that paperwork," he groused, ignoring Eberts' annoyance at the comment, and set his box on top of a file cabinet so he could start to flip through its contents.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Margaret Ann and John Matthew Lynch, as it turned out, had appeared on Hobbes' emergency contact sheets from his enlistment in the Marines until his marriage to his ex-wife. It had taken Eberts and him several hours to find the right file, but at last Darien was in possession of an address and probable destination for Hobbes. What he lacked, however, was permission to go after his partner.

"No," was the Official's response to that request.

"But -" Fawkes began.

"You're still on restricted duty, Fawkes. Until the doctor clears you for  _active_  duty, you're not going anywhere," Borden eyed the younger man sourly. "Besides. Hobbes is attending a funeral. I don't think he really needs backup on that particular mission."

Frustrated, Darien scowled and wracked his brain for some way to con his superior into giving him the OK to follow his partner.

"Actually, sir, based on the content of the messages on Robert's answering machine, it may be that he has a wider agenda than simply paying his last respects to his deceased mentor," came the unexpected input from Eberts, who stood patiently at the Official's side, hands folded behind his back.

"What?" was the skeptical query as the head of the Agency glanced over at his assistant unhappily.

"It appears his  _family_ …"

Darien's ears perked up at the long hesitation and he eyed Eberts with intensifying interest, waiting to hear what was coming next.

"…has contacted him with respect to a missing cousin, sir," Eberts finished. The concern in his voice was unmistakable.

The Official's eyes flashed dangerously, and Darien's internal alarms began going off ? loudly.

"What do you mean, contacted him?" The heavyset man's jowls were quivering.

"His sister Rebecca asked him to… use his connections… to try and trace his missing cousin."

It didn't take a genius to realize he was missing something. Something the Official and his assistant knew about that Darien didn't, and Fawkes straightened in his chair. "What's going on?" he demanded, only now beginning to wonder why he had had relatively little trouble persuading Eberts to help him track down Hobbes after they had listened to the messages on Hobbes' machine.

The two bureaucrats ignored him.

"What else do you know?" the Official asked Eberts.

"That's all, sir, the messages were brief. But given the… situation… with Agent Hobbes' family, it doesn't bode well, for him, or for the Agency," Eberts replied to the Official's question.

The Official's jaw clenched, his annoyance unmistakable. "After what happened at the FBI, I thought he'd have enough brains to stay clear of them," Borden muttered, then turned to glare at Fawkes. "Pack a bag, Fawkes. You're going to New York," he told the Agent. "It looks like your partner may need backup after all."

"Uhm, sir?" Darien began, raising his hand like a school boy. "Question, here."

The Official's glower deepened.

Fawkes refused to allow that to dissuade him. "What's up with Bobby's family?" he asked. "Why does him going home to go to a funeral and to look for a missing cousin spike your blood pressure?"

Eberts opened his mouth as if to reply, but before he could speak, the Official snarled, "That's need to know, Fawkes -"

"Yeah, yeah, 'and I don't need to know'," Darien filled in the rest out of long practice, a trace of attitude coloring the delivery.

"The  _only_  thing you need to know is that Hobbes is to have absolutely  _no_  contact with his relatives. You're going to be there to make sure of it."

"I don't get it. You're making it sound like an ugly divorce, here. Hobbes didn't come across like he was planning on hittin' the ole' family reunion," Darien protested sarcastically, knowing he was arguing the other side of his of original position but unable to keep from defending his absent partner. "You're acting like you expect him to stalk these people. But he made it pretty clear he wasn't interested when his sister called."

"His sister is the least of his worries, Fawkes," Borden said coldly. "And he won't be the one doing the stalking. If those people want his help, they have ways of insisting. I want you there to make sure he doesn't cave under the pressure."

Darien grimaced as he looked from Eberts to the Official and back again. "Why do I have the feeling this 'need to know' crap is gonna come back and bite me in the butt?" he muttered as he rose and strode towards the office door.

"Eberts, arrange a flight for Fawkes," was the last thing he heard as he left the office.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien got stiffly out of the cab and handed the driver a pair of crumpled twenties. "I'll need a receipt," he requested, waiting as the chatty Pakistani filled one out and handed it to him with a smile. He took it with a 'thank you' and swung the strap of his duffel bag over one shoulder.

"Enjoy your stay in New York," the cabby grinned cheerfully and pulled away from the curb, leaving Darien standing in the middle of a cemetery that strongly resembled every other cemetery he'd ever visited. He stretched absently, still trying to work the kinks out of muscles locked up after the long red-eye flight from San Diego to New York. He'd landed in LaGuardia at about noon, but traffic and distance had dragged out his travel time to Brooklyn significantly. He yawned sleepily and looked around, hoping he could locate the funeral he knew Bobby was attending. It wasn't like cemeteries came with convenient maps, or a little locator dot saying 'you are here', so he rolled his head on his neck and began ambling his way across the heat-scorched lawns, heading for a slight rise from which he hoped he could see more of the area.

It was the music that led him to his destination. That and the sudden volley of gunfire. As the echo of the bullets' report faded across the lawns, 'Amazing Grace' played on bagpipes wafted after it. Fawkes blinked, flashing on every police thriller he'd ever seen in which a uniformed officer had been killed in the line of duty. Theoretically, he'd known John Lynch had been a police officer, but somehow, this made it unnervingly real. He followed the music toward a small grove of older trees, careful to stay out of the mourners' line of sight by using the landscaping to shield his approach. He felt increasingly odd about intruding on something this depressingly intimate and paused behind the bole of a large tree to peer around it, cautiously.

It was a good-sized funeral, made up largely of uniformed mourners and a handful of civilians in unrelieved black. Darien picked out a silver-haired petite woman near the center of the group as Maggie Lynch after a moment or two of observation, pegging the red-headed forty-ish woman beside her as her daughter and the pair of taller men on Maggie's other side as her sons, their wives on their arms, grandchildren fidgeting underfoot. Most of the rest of the funeral's attendees were uniformed, predominantly police blues, but a small man on the daughter's far side was clad in full Marine Corps dress uniform, the red-striped sky blue trousers crisply pressed under the navy blue jacket festooned with trim and braid and a bank of bright ribbons, complete down to white gloves and the saber slung from the polished belt. It wasn't until the Marine turned slightly to say something to the daughter that Darien recognized Hobbes under the peaked white cap. His eyes widened in astonishment, it never having occurred to him that his partner still might have his old uniform somewhere… much less that he'd still fit in it. Fawkes was impressed in spite of himself. The change in Bobby's bearing was noticeable even from this distance. There was a formality, an emotional remove that was very unlike his usually loquacious and high-energy partner.

Along the fringes, another small group of civilians clustered, looking awkward and decidedly out of place in their designer black outfits. Darien, with the casual ease of long practice, eyed the glitter of distant jewelry, recognizing wealth when he saw it, and wondered who they were, this handful of interlopers, watching them curiously as the Roman Catholic priest droned unintelligibly through the graveside prayers. The fact that they stayed very carefully behind and out of eyeshot of the majority of the other guests had Fawkes wondering about their welcome at the proceedings. Clearly,  _they_  had their doubts…

The ceremony lasted another 20 minutes, time he spent observing and drawing conclusions about what he saw, practicing some of the skills Hobbes had been trying to impart to him during his ongoing semi-formal Agent training the last few months. It gradually became clear to him that Hobbes was intensely aware of that small group at the edge of the proceedings, though Bobby never once looked their way. In fact, it was that studious avoidance that tipped Darien off. His partner was never one to leave his back exposed, and even in the friendliest surroundings, Hobbes usually kept his eyes roaming the environment to keep track of who and what passed close by. But not here.

The strangeness of that small detail focused Fawkes' attention of the periphery of the funeral. Slowly, it dawned on him that the other uniformed members of the party were also aware of this particular group. Small things gave away their interest: quick glances, the tension in body language, all of these things told Darien that the small cluster of civilians was in some way noteworthy.

Finally the ceremony wound down to a conclusion and the group began to relax, posture loosening up, expressions going from somber to more natural, a range from tears to smiles as mourners exchanged comments and presumably reminiscences. Darien watched as Maggie Lynch excused herself from her family and approached the cluster of outcasts, embracing a slender, dark-haired woman with a delightfully prominent nose. He was too far away to hear what was said, but both the woman's gratified smile and Bobby's escalating tension made it clear that the connection Fawkes had speculated on existed in reality. He realized abruptly, as the dark-haired woman turned her head, that he was looking at Bobby Hobbes' sister. Though subtle, the family resemblance was unmistakable. He whistled low under his breath. "You never told me you had a knock-out for a sister," Darien muttered in unheard commentary to his partner as a smile twitched his lips.

The group began to disperse, the outsiders the first to drift off, and Darien saw Hobbes relax at last. It was time to put in his own appearance, he realized, as Hobbes retrieved Maggie and tucked her arm through his in a proprietary fashion, escorting her slowly away from the graveside, her own kids and their families following alongside.

Darien started off diagonally to their line of travel, hoping to intercept them unobtrusively, counting on Hobbes to become aware of his presence as soon as he cleared the trees. Sure enough, as Fawkes approached the Lynch family, Hobbes ducked his head, whispering something to Maggie, and peeled off, striding across the lawn towards Darien with unmistakable disapproval on his face.

"Fawkes." Hobbes' annoyance was clear. "What the hell are you doin' here?" he demanded as he caught up to his lanky partner and fell into step beside Darien.

"Watchin' my partner's back," Fawkes answered quietly, turning his head to glance at Bobby.

"My back don't need watchin', pal. Not here," Hobbes disagreed. "What's the real story?"

"The fat man sent me," Darien confessed, perfectly willing to let their employer be the villain of the piece. "He wanted me to make sure you stayed clear of your family…" he added.

Hobbes caught Darien by one elbow, swinging him around to face him. "What exactly did he tell you about my family?" Bobby demanded angrily, bristling, suddenly crackling with barely restrained hostility.

Taken aback, Darien took a half a step away from his partner. "Nothing, man, jeeze!" he protested, shaking off Hobbes' grip on him. "I swear! In fact, he gave me the ole need-to-know routine. He just told me I was supposed to keep you out of trouble!"

Bobby snarled soundlessly, turning and beginning to walk again.

Fawkes followed, catching up quickly. "Hobbes… I'm sorry about Jack Lynch," he said at last.

"That makes both of us, pal," Hobbes said tightly, "and most of the borough of Brooklyn, too." Silence stretched between them as they trailed after the Lynch family. "He was a hero, Fawkes. An all-American, true-blue hero. I owed it to him and Maggie both to be here for this," he said eventually as they reached the flagstone path that led to the parking area where a fleet of limos and sedans waited. It was another minute or two before he continued. "So how'd you know about Jack?" he asked at last, eyeing his partner suspiciously.

Suddenly embarrassed, Darien shoved his hands into his pockets and ducked his head sheepishly.

"Well?" Hobbes insisted after a long moment.

"Uh, I kinda listened to your messages," Darien confessed at last, not looking at his partner. For all their two years of friendship, it had recently occurred to Fawkes that there was far more he  _didn't_  know about his partner than what he did.

Quiet greeted this announcement. "You mean you barged into my place and snooped into my business," Hobbes corrected sarcastically. "Problem is, genius, I erased my messages before I left."

"Uhm, yeah… but Eberts kinda helped me recover them," Fawkes admitted reluctantly.

Hobbes came to a startled standstill, Darien overshooting him by a few steps. "You dragged that little pencil-pusher into this?" Bobby asked, outraged. "Dammit, Fawkes, what were you thinking?"

Darien turned to face his angry partner. "I was worried about you," he defended himself. "After that act you put on when we were late for the movies, I…" he trailed off.

"You  _what_?" Hobbes snapped.

"I thought you might need my help," he said hesitantly, gazing down at his furious partner with a carefully pleading look. The look he'd been told more than once resembled that of a beaten puppy. He was not above using any advantage he had when it came to getting his way. And right now, his first concern was to find out what was going on between Hobbes and his family.

Hobbes' curse was inaudible, but none the less, forceful. "So the chief really  _did_  send you," he commented bitterly, resignation in his voice.

Darien nodded as Bobby glanced his way.

Hobbes shook his head slightly, picking up his pace as he seized Darien by the arm again and hauled him along. "Well as long as you're here, ace, let's get a few things straight, ok?" he suggested.

"Such as?" Darien asked cautiously.

"Such as my family is none of your business, right? You just tell the Fat Man that everything is copasetic and we'll be fine. No more sneaking around behind my back. Got it?"

"Got it," Fawkes agreed without hesitation. "Where are we going?" he asked as Hobbes approached the mourners purposefully.

"You, my friend, are going back to San Diego," Hobbes announced. "And I am going to take care of a little business."

Darien balked, literally digging in his heels. "Uh-uh," he shook his head negatively. "My orders were to keep an eye on you, so that's what I'm gonna do," he said stubbornly, resisting Hobbes' efforts to get him moving again, shifting his duffel strap to the other shoulder.

"Since when do  _you_  follow orders?" Bobby inquired cynically, raising a dark eyebrow as he glared at his partner.

Fawkes eyed Hobbes, a slow smirk spreading across his face. "Not much fun, huh? Having a partner jog your elbow?" he clarified, smugly. "Just giving you a little taste of what it's like being on the receiving end of the boss's 'lack of trust'," he pointed out. "Look. How many times have you tailed  _me_  when I told you to get lost?" he asked Hobbes, putting his hands on his hips and glaring back at the smaller man. "Not once did you ever leave me alone. So get over it, Bobby. I've got your back, whether you like it or not."

Hobbes' body language blazed with frustrated anger. They stood on the path glaring at each other for a small eternity, until finally, Darien saw the fight drain out of his partner, Hobbes' shoulders slumping perceptibly.

"Alright, have it your way," Bobby muttered as he turned and walked away toward the funeral party.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Two

 

Darien hung back, feeling awkward as he trailed after Hobbes, taking in the comfortably scruffy Brooklyn neighborhood they had arrived at from the cemetery. It was surprisingly suburban-looking, single-family homes interspersed with the occasional brownstone row houses. Mature trees lined the sidewalks and children played outside on front lawns. All available street parking had been taken up with the funeral procession, as the mourners had adjourned to the Lynch family home for a repast of finger foods and other delicacies contributed by friends and neighbors.

Hobbes had introduced him to the Lynch family as his partner back at the cemetery, and Maggie Lynch had embraced Darien with open arms, discomfiting him no end when she had kissed him on the cheek, having to stand on tiptoe to manage it. "Any friend of Robert's is a friend of ours," she'd said firmly, forcing her family to cluster even more tightly in their limo so Darien could shoehorn himself in with them for the drive back. He'd answered her questions about himself and his partnership with Hobbes as briefly as was polite under Bobby's watchful eye, but still felt odd about having to evade her more specific inquiries.

Her sharp-eyed evaluation of him had not escaped Darien and he was well aware that his grilling had been postponed, not avoided, when they had finally arrived at her home. He knew he'd be interrogated again, however gently, and wondered what he could safely say to a policeman's wife about his past, and how he'd come to be partnered with Hobbes.

He wandered into the front room of the spacious if well-worn older home, staying to the edges of the space, avoiding the small groups of guests who stood chatting amongst themselves, contenting himself with watching them. Procuring a napkin loaded with a small assortment of snacks, he perused the crowd, keeping a weather eye on Hobbes, who had removed his peaked white cap, gloves and the saber at his side at some point. He still couldn't get over the difference in his partner's bearing while he wore the uniform. He wondered what the rows of colored ribbons implied, though he recognized the pair of purple hearts that bracketed another medal. It made him feel a little strange, knowing that Hobbes had been decorated and that he had no idea what for.

Eavesdropping on one conversation, he lost track of his partner and it wasn't until he heard Hobbes' raised voice that he realized it. Wading quickly through the clusters of guests, he headed for the sounds of an altercation, pushing his way into the front hall to see Hobbes standing nose-to-collarbone with a barrel-chested man of late middle age that Darien knew instantly had to be Hobbes' brother. Features shared by other man and the dark-haired woman a few steps below the new arrival made the conclusion inescapable, the Hobbes family resemblance unmistakable. Close up, Hobbes' mysterious sister was even more attractive than she'd been from a distance and Darien spared a split second to admire the fine-boned delicacy and dark-eyed loveliness of Rebecca Hobbes, set off as it was by the black Chanel shift and black and silver printed Italian silk scarf. Of course, the massive diamond drop earrings with their matching pendant and the 6 carat rock on her ring finger didn't hurt the overall impression, either, and if genuine, looked like they'd fetch a hefty price from any fence he knew. Unless he was very much mistaken, she was the real deal. Wealth and privilege on the hoof.

"You have no business here, Nate," Bobby was saying, dark eyes flashing with temper. "This is a house'a mourning. Not a business opportunity. Go circle some other corpse!"

"We came to pay our respects, Bobby. Same as you. Jack Lynch was a family friend -" the new arrival started, only to be interrupted by Hobbes' drawn-back fist and snarl of anger.

Darien reached out to snatch at the sleeve of his partner's uniform coat, keeping him from landing the blow. "Hobbes," he cautioned softly, moving forward to stand beside Hobbes.

"Stay outta this, Fawkes," Hobbes warned without looking at him, every muscle stiff with outrage.

"Bobby, this isn't the place or the time for a brawl, okay?" Darien urged softly, not releasing his grip on his partner. There was a tense moment as he waited for Hobbes to come to a decision, and he breathed a mental sigh of relief when Bobby jerked free of him and stalked off, leaving Darien facing the other man.

"Who are you?" came the cautious question.

"Darien Fawkes," Darien introduced himself, offering a hand.

"Nathan Hobbes," was the response as his hand was shaken firmly. "Nate. So. How do you know my little brother?"

"I work with him. He's my partner," Darien answered, distracted as Hobbes' sister and another, slightly taller, yarmulke-wearing man came up the steps to stand on the one below Nathan. Like his siblings behind him, Nathan was dark-haired and sported a beaky nose on a scale larger than Bobby's, but it was the dimples alongside the man's mouth that proclaimed him a Hobbes, that and the intense intelligence in the dark eyes. He, too, was adorned with less-than-discrete indicators of wealth and status, the gold Rolex and the heavy gold-and-diamond pinky ring almost cliché in Fawkes' estimation. The look the two behind Nathan exchanged left him wondering just what Hobbes' family knew about Bobby's work.

Nathan raised an eyebrow in visible astonishment, "Partner, huh?" then nodded, glancing behind himself to gesture at his siblings. "This is my sister Rebecca, and my brother Jacob," he introduced them. "Jake, Becky, this is Darien Fawkes. Bobby's 'partner'."

Darien reached past Nathan to shake the other two hands offered to him, wondering at the subtle emphasis Nate had placed on the word ' _partner'_. He managed a glance at Jacob Hobbes as well, noting the sturdy, middle-class comfort in the man's softening figure and expensive clothing and accessories. "Pleased to meet you," he said earnestly, wishing for the first time that he'd had the chance to change clothes after his long trip. He ran his fingers self-consciously through his hair, trying to revive the weary strands, then gave it up as a lost cause. He stepped aside, letting the Hobbes family into the foyer.

While both of the older Hobbes brothers were the picture of prosperity, neither of them, for all that they had a good six inches on Bobby, held a candle to his partner's lean, compact strength. While Darien had his suspicions about the fact that living by ones' wits was a shared family trait, clearly, Bobby lived by more than that. Physical prowess and stamina were his skills as much as the cunning and ruthlessness Darien recognized as character traits in the trio standing in the foyer in front of him, and he stifled the little stir of uneasiness.

"So you're Bob's partner, huh?" Jacob said, moving past his brother, Nathan, so he could take Darien's arm and urge him forcefully through the nearest doorway and into a study littered with books and the memorabilia of a lifetime of marriage, work, and family. The only other occupants of the room were an aquarium with a few brightly colored fish and a sleeping cat stretched out along the backrest of a leather desk chair, basking in the late afternoon sunshine.

"Uh -" Darien said, startled at the speed with which he had been hustled aside, and surprised by the undisguised interest his partnership with Bobby seemed to be generating.

"Look, you think maybe you could talk to him for us? Get him to hear us out? We have sort of a family emergency, and we could really use his help," Jacob Hobbes continued as if Fawkes hadn't said a word.

"Well," Darien started, only to be interrupted again.

"Our cousin's disappeared, and naturally, we're sorta worried about him," Jake rushed on as if afraid that by letting Fawkes get a word in edgewise, the moment would be lost, and with it, all possibility of aid from Bobby. "See…" the pause was distinctly uncomfortable. "Charlie may have gotten himself into some trouble…"

"Trouble?" Darien repeated curiously, hoping he would get more information out of Bobby's brother than he'd gotten out of Hobbes himself when he'd questioned him a few days before, after overhearing part of the call that had precipitated this whole excursion.

"Yeah. We're afraid he may have gotten mixed up with some New Jersey muscle," Jake admitted at last. "Chuck owns an electrical contracting business in Toms River, about two and a half hours from here. Bob useta spend the summers workin' for him, layin' cable and stuff. They were pretty close, till Bob went off and joined the Marines and all…" He eyed Darien with a look Fawkes could recognize a mile away as the hallmark of someone used to getting their own way, regardless of what it took.

Rather than fight it, Darien smiled encouragingly and leaned up against the edge of the desk he'd been backed into, crossing his arms casually across his chest. "Yeah, Bobby mentioned something about that," he replied, determined to coax whatever story it was Jacob Hobbes had to tell out of him in all its gory detail.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A good 20 minutes later, he'd heard the whole pitch from Jacob, and the two reentered the foyer and the small trickle of mourners flowing in and out of the house. Darien excused himself, watching as Jake moved comfortably through the front hall to the living room, his posture relaxed now that he was confident that Darien would argue his case for him. Fawkes snagged a glass of punch from a passing tray and sipped, sensing his partner's approach.

"What the hell were you doing in there, Fawkes?" Bobby demanded quietly.

"Just talking to your brother," Darien answered calmly, ignoring the buzz of angry energy coming from his partner.

Hobbes snorted disbelievingly. "Talking. Right. About what, junior?"

"You never told me your family was straight outta 'The Sopranos'," Darien commented casually, sipping from his punch again as he eyed Hobbes over the edge of the glass, smiling slightly. "Or that you have a total hottie for a sister," he added, impishly.

Anger warred with good old-fashioned embarrassment in Bobby's face as he stared back at his younger partner. "Like that's a  _good_  thing?" he snapped. "Stay away from them, Darien," he warned emphatically. "Especially Beck. She'd eat you alive, no mistake about it. 'Sides. She's married."

Darien raised an eyebrow at the use of his first name. It was the first time in recent memory that he'd heard Hobbes call him by his given name. He lowered the glass and stared at Hobbes. "It really freaks you out, huh?" he observed, suddenly enlightened. "The Mob thing?"

Hobbes glared back at him. "Oh, and you think it shouldn't? Fawkes, you have  _no idea_  the hell my life has been because of that little fact," he said softly, the low pitch doing nothing to disguise the deep resentment in his voice. "No frickin' idea..." he trailed off and started to turn away.

Fawkes reached out to touch his arm. "Hey, Bobby. I'm sorry, man, but I… well, you know all about  _my_  family, I just kinda wanted to know a little about yours," he said in apology.

"Lemme tell you something, Fawkes; Maggie and Jack Lynch are more my family than Jake or Nate or Becky ever were." He stared fiercely up at his taller partner, considering a moment. "I think we need to have a little talk, there, ace. About family, and privacy and a few things like that. I'm gonna go get into some civvies. Don't go anywhere. And don't talk to anyone  _else_. Got it?" he asked sharply.

Darien nodded. "Yes, dad. I won't talk to any strangers…" he teased, refusing to let Hobbes' anger cow him or stifle his native curiosity.

"Smart guy," Hobbes muttered disparagingly under his breath as he turned and made his way up the stairs, disappearing into the upper reaches of the house.

He returned less than five minutes later, back in his more familiar garb, dark slacks and a red polo shirt, and hustled his partner out the front door after letting the hostess know they were going out for a bit.

Hobbes escorted Fawkes firmly down the front stairs and out onto the walk, turning left onto the sidewalk. He strode purposefully a pace or two ahead of Darien without saying a word, leading the way down to the corner. He turned it and strode along until he came to the next intersection, turning this corner as well. He was silent until he reached the middle of the block, then stopped, turning to glare back at his dawdling partner, waiting impatiently, arms crossed over his chest, one foot tapping the concrete unconsciously.

Darien ignored the prevailing mood and sauntered up to where his partner stood. "Nice neighborhood, Hobbesy, but how come I'm getting the scenic tour, huh?" he asked.

"You wanna know about my family, wiseguy? Well here's where it all started. The saga of Robert A. Hobbes, black sheep and family disappointment. You are looking, my friend, at the ole' family homestead, here. The Hobbes family abode till the folks passed away, my brothers made it into the big time, so to speak, and my sister  _married_  into it." The bitter sarcasm in Bobby's voice penetrated, and Darien cocked an eyebrow at him, turning to look at the unprepossessing two-story 1940s home he'd waved at.

It was remarkable only in its ordinariness, comfortable, working class, perhaps in need of a little paint here and there, but the carefully tended front garden spoke of the care and pride of its current occupants. Darien looked back at his partner, whose gaze had never wavered from Fawkes, watching for Darien's reaction. "It's nice. Cozy," Darien said somewhat at a loss for an appropriate response.

"You think so, huh?" Hobbes inquired with biting irony. "Let's just say, if those walls could speak, 'cozy' isn't what they'd be sayin'." He turned to face the house, pointing past it to the roof of the building visible just behind it. "See that house, there? That's the Lynches'. We shared a back fence with them, and pretty much as soon as I was strong enough to climb it, I went over the wall, pal. Didn't look back, either." With this, Hobbes turned and retraced his steps back to the corner without another word.

Fawkes followed on his heels, suddenly realizing that he had waded into deep and muddy waters here. "Hobbes?" he asked hesitantly as they reached the corner. "Wanna show me around a little?" he suggested, the non sequitur bringing Hobbes to a stop as he turned to face Fawkes, caught by surprise at the request.

"What, now you  _want_  the scenic tour?" Hobbes asked, the sarcasm a little more restrained than it had been, the bitterness gone as he wordlessly acknowledged both the diversion and the olive branch his partner had just offered.

Darien scuffed a toe along the crack in the sidewalk and shrugged. "Hey, what can I say? I've never been to New York. Who better to show me around then one of the natives?"

Hobbes snorted. "You got that right, at least," he grinned suddenly. "Okay. You want the grand tour? You got it, Buckwheat." He started down the sidewalk, most of the tension gone from his body language, and Darien grinned and fell into step beside him, the well-worn, comfortable partnership they had developed settling back into place between them as simply as that.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They got out of the cab under the Brooklyn Bridge, Hobbes enjoining the driver to wait for them under penalty of the most painful and unpleasant death he could devise.

"You were kinda rough on the guy, weren't you?" Darien inquired as he leaned on the railing of the promenade that bordered the East River.

"This is  _New York,_ partner. Cabs are worth their weight in gold and they're a lot harder to come by. He waits, or he dies. We're payin' him enough," Hobbes answered, taking a deep lungful of damp air as he took in the view along the underside of the massive bridge towards Manhattan. There was something about being on his home turf again that gave him a rush unlike any other he'd experienced in a long career filled with adrenaline highs. However, the sense of homecoming was tinged with both sadness and deep anger as he scanned the view. It took several seconds before it sank in exactly what it was that was wrong, but when it did, he looked away quickly, vision blurring a little. Instead, he focused on the view on the eastern side of the bridge, watching as the late afternoon sun glinted off the polished top of the Chrysler building.

"It looks just like the pictures, only bigger," Darien observed, peering up at the steel framework of the underside of the imposing gothic-towered bridge. "Musta really been something, when they built this sucker."

Hobbes nodded, following his partner's look upward. "That it was, my friend. I'm sure we can find a museum, if you're gonna get all intellectual on me," he gibed, more in an attempt to distract himself from the chill the absence along the skyline gave him then out of any disinclination to visit one.

Fawkes grinned as he looked down at his smaller partner. "You're the tour guide, Bobby. I go where you take me," he assured Hobbes.

Hobbes considered briefly. "You hungry?" he asked, then laughed at himself. "Dumb question. Hollow Legs, here, is always hungry. Whadda ya say, Fawkes? Up for your first taste of a real New York pizza? I dunno about you, but three cucumber sandwiches and a glass of punch aren't gonna hold me much longer," he proposed cockily. It was one of the things he missed the most about his native turf. California's idea of pizza was either too thick-crusted, or too gourmet, with oddities like Swiss chard, goat cheese and walnuts as toppings.

Darien nodded enthusiastically, mouth watering suddenly at the thought of food. "Yeah, me either, and the red-eye I flew in on wasn't exactly generous with the bags of peanuts," he replied. "Lead the way."

They climbed back into the cab and within half an hour found themselves on the Manhattan side of the bridge along the fringes of Greenwich Village. Hobbes directed the cabby to the corner he had in mind and hopped out, paying him as Fawkes climbed out the other side, standing in the middle of the street absently as he looked around at the neighborhood. He was still standing there when the cab pulled away, nearly running over his foot, and Hobbes reached forward, seizing him by a belt loop and dragging him onto the sidewalk, shaking his head.

"Tourist," he teased his partner. "Gotta watch where you're goin' in this town, pal, or you're gonna end up so much road kill. It's every man for himself on the mean streets." He turned and led the way down the block a few doors to a comfortably weathered storefront called Rizzo's Pizzeria that advertised 'the thinnest crust in the city', holding the door open so Fawkes could precede him inside. Even though it was only five in the afternoon, there was already a sizable crowd, and it took a minute of looking around before they found a vacant booth and settled themselves as a harried waitress arrived with frayed laminated menus. "'Evenin'" she greeted them perfunctorily, snapping her gum as she set out paper napkins and utensils haphazardly on the Formica tabletop. "Can I getcha anything to drink?" she inquired.

Fawkes eyed Hobbes, looking to take his cue from his partner, and Hobbes nodded expansively. "Sure thing." He shot a look at Darien, proceeding when he got a non-committal shrug. "Make it a coupla rootbeers, 'kay?" he flashed a grin at her.

"Comin' up," she agreed and headed back the way she had come to fetch their drinks. Hobbes handed Fawkes a menu and looked over his own cursorily. "Whatcha up for?"

Darien simply dropped his onto the tabletop and settled against the vinyl of the booth back contentedly. "Whatever the native son orders," he grinned happily. "You know what I like. Man, Hobbes, you know how long it's been since I've been anywhere?" he asked, looking around the restaurant with bright-eyed interest.

Hobbes glanced across the table at him. "What're you talkin' about? You were in Mexico just a few weeks ago," he reminded.

"No. I mean somewhere outside the state of California," Darien, said, exasperated.

"Uhm, ok, wiseass question here, but isn't Mexico  _outside_  of California?" Hobbes snarked at his partner.

"Hobbes, you know what I mean, somewhere outside a 300 mile radius of the Agency. It's like…. It reminds me of summer vacation, when I was a kid. You know, that first day after school lets out, and you know you've got three whole months before you gotta worry about homework and PE and all that crap?" Fawkes explained, slumping into his seat with more relaxation than Hobbes had seen in his lanky frame at any time in the past.

He couldn't help grinning briefly, before the reality of what had brought them to the opposite side of the country bubbled back to the top of his thoughts. "Yeah, well, for you maybe it's a vacation. For me… it ain't no walk in Central Park. Let's just put it that way," he said with a sigh.

Darien sobered at the reminder. "Yeah. I'm sorry about that, Hobbes. I didn't mean to sound like it was all fun and games, or anything…" he apologized. The silence extended awkwardly for several minutes until the waitress returned with their drinks, setting the frosty bottles and a pair of glasses on the table in front of them.

"Youse two ready to order?" she inquired, pulling a pad and pencil out of her apron pocket expectantly.

"Yeah. We'll have a large house special, with anchovies and -" Bobby began, ignoring Darien's groan of protest, "- peppers." He handed the menus back to her and smirked at Fawkes. "Listen, grasshopper, am I not your guide in all things New York? Just try it. You can always pick the little suckers off, right?"

"But I  _hate_  anchovies," Fawkes complained, the unmistakable whine of a five-year-old creeping into his voice.

"Tough luck, buddy. You know what they say; when in Rome…" Hobbes pointed out, taking a sip from his root beer without bothering to pour it into the glass.

"Last I checked, this wasn't Rome," Fawkes said grumpily under his breath. He took a swallow of his own drink, following Hobbes' lead. "So. Tell me about the Lynches," he changed the subject, hoping he could get his partner to open up a little about the situation in which they found themselves.

Hobbes scowled and took another sip, thinking about how to answer. "Jack and Maggie, they basically raised me," he confided at last, not looking at his partner. Instead, he traced a forefinger through one of the water rings left by his soda bottle contemplatively. "Wasn't much reason to hang out at my house. Beck and I're a lot younger than Nate and Jacob. And I never really got along with any of them. I was sorta the runt of the litter."

Fawkes didn't interrupt, recognizing the silence for what it was: a trip down memory lane for his partner, and the path was obviously a bumpy one.

"My old man was a numbers runner for one'a the families on the side, when he wasn't pretending to run a delicatessen. My mom pretty much worked herself into an early grave, tryin' to keep that albatross afloat cuz she had some major philosophical issues with my dad's side job. Even though it paid for the mortgage, not to mention the summers in Florida…" Hobbes trailed off, mentally regrouping.

"I was buddies with Greg Lynch, their oldest. I started hangin' with him when I was around 8 or so, and ended up spending mosta my time at his house. Maggie and Jack fed me, made me do my homework, and along the way, made me realize I didn't have very much in common with the rest of the Hobbes family." He sipped from his soda again, then set it on the table, meeting Fawkes' eyes for the first time. "Jack is pretty much the reason I joined the Marines. And the only reason I made it into the spook biz is cuz he was a stand-up guy. He gave me the recommendations that got me into the CIA and the FBI. It wasn't his fault I was a waste of their time," he finished with an odd mix of bitterness and resignation as he picked up his drink again.

"Hobbes." Darien's voice was firm, no room in it for pity. "You've never been a waste of  _anyone's_  time." He swallowed a mouthful of his own soda and put down the bottle. "So Jack Lynch was a cop, huh?" he went on conversationally.

Hobbes nodded slightly. "Oh, he was a cop, alright. A cop's cop. You saw the crowd today for his funeral," he reminded. "He was captain of the 62nd precinct for almost fifteen years. His record was spotless."

"So how'd he die? I didn't think police captains were exactly the first ones on the scene when the bullets start flying," Fawkes asked, puzzled. "I mean, I was never in a shoot-out before I joined the Agency, but it always looked to me like it was the beat cops who did the work."

"Then you'd be wrong, there, wisenheimer. But it wasn't a bullet that killed him," Bobby said with a trace of a chill in his voice. "He died on September 11th."

Darien stared at his partner as the color drained slowly out of his face. "Oh, crap," he whispered, too stunned for more than the most basic and sincere form of contrition. "I'm sorry, Bobby," he added quietly. "I didn't know."

Hobbes shrugged slightly. "No reason you should've," he replied. "But for the record? You got a hostage situation, a sniper, any kinda whacko with a gun? You'll have a ranking cop on hand to make sure whoever's running the show does it by the book."

The waitress chose that moment to arrive with their pizza, a piping hot monstrosity that nearly filled the tabletop. Fawkes waited through her bustling, considering what his partner had said. When she'd arranged their meal to her satisfaction and left, he voiced his opinion on his skills as an investigator. "Well, I shoulda been able to figure it out," he said as Hobbes reached into the center of the table and helped himself to a slice.

"Huh?" Hobbes grunted, glancing up from his wrestling match with the pizza.

"I shoulda been able to put it together from what Maggie said in her message. You've been pounding it into my head that this job's all in the details, just like when I worked with Liz," Fawkes said, reaching across to free the recalcitrant end of Hobbes' slice.

Bobby nodded a 'thanks' and folded it neatly lengthwise down the center, lifting the now consolidated slice to his mouth with one hand. He blew on it to cool it, then took a bite, eyes closing with gustatory pleasure. He chewed and swallowed. "Live and learn, Fawkesy, live and learn. Maybe you'll listen to me, now."

"I always listen," Darien protested, then followed Bobby's example, choosing a small slice that was largely anchovy-free and nibbling on it. His eyes widened, unexpectedly pleased. Though he'd never been a fan of anchovies, here, the saltiness of the little fish was offset nicely by the unmistakable sweetness of real vine-ripened tomatoes that had gone into the sauce. The balance of cheese and other toppings was weighted in favor of simplicity of flavor and he took another bite, appreciatively, grunting his approval. "Mmmmm." But it was the nearly cracker-thin crust that made the experience so much different than the pizzas he'd grown up with. Small flecks of carbon darkened the bottom of the crust and the texture was crisp, yet tender. "You're right. This is good."

"See?" Bobby said around his own mouthful, "I told ya so," he grinned at Fawkes with forgivable smugness. "You ain't gonna find pizza like this anywhere else on the planet," he assured Darien.

They finished their impromptu supper and headed to the Empire State building via the F train, at Hobbes insistence. "You ain't been in New York if you haven't ridden the subway, Fawkes," was Bobby's assertion as he shepherded his public-transportation-impaired West Coast partner down the stairs to the subway platform, with its crowds of commuters and tourists.

It was still early enough that the view from the Empire State building's observation deck would be clear, helping to orient his West Coast partner to the island of Manhattan. They wandered leisurely through the lobby, Fawkes admiring the 1930s marble and gilt work, reading the dedication plaque aloud and embarrassing Hobbes. Eventually, they made their way up to the observation deck and stood at the fenced in railing, admiring the views that had been captured on countless picture postcards. Darien walked all the way around the deck twice while Bobby stood gazing to the southeast, brooding on the unaccustomed gap that allowed him a hazy view of Brooklyn, across the distant river. The setting sun glazed the western sides of the Manhattan skyline with molten gold for a breathtaking five minutes or so until it sank below the horizon, and Darien returned from his final circuit around the deck.

"Heck of a view," Fawkes remarked as he bumped his elbow into Bobby's arm to get his attention.

"Huh? Yeah, it is," Hobbes agreed, snapping back to the here and now. "So where to next?" he asked, glancing at Darien's profile.

There was a pause before Darien answered. "Promise you won't laugh?" he asked without looking at Hobbes.

Just being asked such a question made Bobby chuckle. "Who, me? Would I embarrass you in public? Would I really do somethin' like that? I am  _deeply_  saddened that you would think such a thing, Fawkes," he teased.

Darien turned and made a face at him. "Alright, forget it," he sulked. "See if I tell you anything," he continued and bounced the toe of his sneaker against the masonry wall.

Hobbes simply continued to laugh, taking his cranky partner by the elbow and dragging him off towards the elevator. "I got just the thing,' he told Fawkes impishly. "Guaranteed to cheer you right up."

"Where are we goin' now?" Fawkes demanded suspiciously, allowing Hobbes to shove him onto the downward-bound elevator.

"You'll see when we get there," Hobbes grinned.

It took the better part of an hour to reach the destination he had in mind, but when they did, Fawkes' delight made it worth all the whining and complaining that had come before. They spent a very enjoyable three hours doing all the Coney Island attractions, riding the classic wooden coaster, the Cyclone, more than half a dozen times to celebrate Darien's ever-increasing control of the adrenaline-triggered Quicksilver. When his endless appetite reasserted itself, he talked his partner into a late snack at Nathan's, the world famous purveyor and, according to some, the originator of that elemental Americanism, the hotdog, with every condiment known to humanity to top them off.

Fawkes' sigh of contentment as he stood watching the lighted coaster make another clacking run on its scaffolded tracks against the blackness of the sky made Hobbes grin. "No," he said, laughing quietly as his partner turned a truculent expression on him. "You wanna ride again after one of those things, go right ahead. But I can lay odds that it'll end up on the asphalt if you do," he warned, referring to the volcanically spiced pepper-and-chili-garnished hot dogs they'd just finished.

"You're no fun, Hobbesy," Fawkes complained good-temperedly. He stood watching the roller coaster make one more round of the tracks before eyeing Hobbes. "You think we can get to Times Square before midnight?" he asked suddenly.

Hobbes cracked up.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They set out by subway again, this time to Times Square, Darien having insisted on seeing the place that had become a national symbol for New Years' Eve festivities. The late evening crowds were numerous, but not the congested mass of rush hour, and Fawkes walked around the square twice, an amused Hobbes in tow, gazing up at the surrounding buildings with their lighted electronic banners and billboards.

"In case you lost your calendar, Fawkes, it ain't New Years," Hobbes pointed out needlessly.

"Oh, gee. I guess that explains why Dick Clark is a no-show, huh?" Darien responded with amiable sarcasm.

Hobbes snorted appreciatively.

"Where's the ball?" Darien asked with a grin and a wry look at his partner.

"Ball this, smart guy," Hobbes laughed, cuffing Fawkes lightly along the back of his head. "You done here, gland-boy?" he asked. "I don't know about you, but I'm beat."

Darien grinned. "This from the guy who can spend 48 hours on a stakeout without sleep?" he teased. "Can we see some more'a Broadway?"

Hobbes groaned. "You're relentless," he complained. "Remind me not to go on vacation with you," he requested, setting off determinedly along Broadway, heading uptown along the densest concentration of theaters in the city. "C'mon, pal. Right this way," he waved a hand at the midday-bright sidewalk in front of them, inviting Darien to take the lead. "You wanna see Broadway? You're gonna see  _Broadway_ ," Hobbes sighed gamely.

Hobbes followed after Darien as his younger partner wandered along the brightly-lit street, gawking up at one giant billboard after another for the better part of 10 blocks.

As if their passage was some sort of signal, diversely garbed theater-goers spilled out of playhouses in their wake, laughing, buoyant, celebratory. Hobbes watched Fawkes' attention divided between the people and the marquees and he wondered what Darien was looking for. When they'd crossed 52nd, Fawkes came to a halt under the massive, brilliantly lit marquee for the Wintergarden, staring up at the name of the show it housed: "Mamma Mia". It vaguely rang a bell in Hobbes' memory, though he was the first to admit that theater productions were not his area of expertise. "Ok, enough already," Bobby announced. "We've still gotta walk all the way back to the subway, Fawkes. It's late, and I'm tired." Wearily, he began to turn around, only to be brought up short by Darien's call to wait.

Bobby glanced back at his distracted friend and sighed, letting his head drop back on his shoulders in a dramatic gesture of patience tried to the breaking point. "Fawkes, dammit, I'm tired! And you, how come you aren't jet-lagged?" he demanded, trudging back to where Darien stood, apparently transfixed by the large posters for the musical, written around the music of '70s pop sensation, ABBA.

"Its three hours earlier in San Diego, remember?" His spiky haired friend said, standing against the wall in an attempt to evade the play-goers who were emerging onto the street from the Wintergarden's lobby still humming various snatches of tunes from the performance, or from the medley of songs that made up the finale, strains of which were bursting from the theater with every patron's exit through the big doors, as they swung open. "Fawkes," he said sharply, when his partner failed to answer. "What's the big attraction about some bad Swedish band from the '70s?"

"Damn," Darien muttered, eyeing the poster in dismay, reading the glowing reviews for the play that had been constructed around the songs of Benny Andersen and Bjorn Ulvaeus. "That Swiss-miss mother was right."

"What, you're telling me that Arnaud was recommending musicals to you the last time we met up?" Hobbes asked, confused, temper growing short. "When did the two of you have time for a casual chat?"

Fawkes shook his head. "Nah, this was a long time ago, when Kev first put the gland in my head," Darien replied ruefully. "Arnie an' I kinda got into a pissing contest over whether or not ABBA was a Swiss group. He said it wasn't, I said it was. Looks like he was right. They're Swedish." He frowned at the poster one last time in disappointment before turning toward his impatient partner.

The odd expression on Darien's face made Bobby's irritation dissipate in the face of a surge of worry. "What's wrong, Fawkes?" he asked anxiously, a little more sharply than he intended.

"Nothing," Darien shrugged, both posture and voice unconvincing, as he shuffled towards his waiting partner.

He plodded on ahead, looking visibly moody, and Hobbes hurriedly caught up to him, matching Fawkes' longer stride and glancing up at him worriedly. "Come on, my friend, you been mister personality all night. What's with the long face? And don't tell me it's cuz you lost a bet with the Phone."

Darien stuffed his hands into his pockets, elbows protruding out at awkward angles as he walked down the sidewalk toward the corner and the subway entrance, still silent.

"Fawkes," Hobbes said warningly, his voice sharpening even more. "Talk to me, pal. What's wrong?"

Darien shrugged again, starting down the steps to the subway, Hobbes hurrying after him, feeling the stir of air up the stairwell that advertised the passing of a train below. "Wait up, here, pal, you're gettin' all funky on me all of a sudden and I wanna know why," he insisted, reaching out to catch Fawkes by the shirtsleeve and bring him to a stop on the stairs, regardless of the flow of pedestrians parting around them like water around a boulder.

He hopped down the stairs to stand in front of his taller partner, peering upward into brooding dark eyes. "Fawkes, are you gonna tell me what's buggin' you, or am I gonna have to beat it outta you?"

Darien shrugged a third time, the hands still in his pockets causing his arms to flap slightly, making him resemble some sort of gangly flightless bird. "You ever miss 'em, Hobbes?"

"Miss who?" Bobby demanded, by this time completely confused.

"Your family," Darien clarified hesitantly, his uncertainty about bringing up the subject forcing Hobbes to resist the reflex anger the question stirred up.

"We gotta talk about this now?" Bobby asked, doing his best to keep the edge out of his voice.

"It's just that I do, you know? Miss knowing there are people out there who'd do their best to help me out if I needed it. I miss Kevin and it kinda creeps up on me sometimes, when I'm not really expecting it. And it's weird, cuz it's not like Kev and I were close or anything, not after we grew up…"

Hobbes gritted his teeth. "So, what am I, chopped liver?" he asked shortly, then turned and led the way down the stairs to the station below. "If you don't know by now that I've got your back, no matter what, then you ain't been payin' much attention the last coupla years, buddy," he added with obvious sarcasm.

Darien caught up to his partner with a sudden burst of speed. "I didn't mean it like that, Hobbes," he apologized as they reached the platform. "You know?"

Bobby recognized the entreaty in Darien's voice and sighed, hard pressed to maintain a fit of pique in the face of his partner's earnestly worried expression. "Fawkes, you gotta know my family isn't exactly the Brady bunch, right? What I miss is what I never had. Jack and Maggie were closer to me in a lotta ways than my own folks, but it's not the same. They sure understood me better, though." He paused as their train arrived, picking up the thread of the conversation when they had secured a handhold and the train had lurched back into motion. "Sometimes I swear I musta been adopted, cuz I ain't anything like the resta my family," he added.

"So… were you plannin' on looking into what happened to your cousin, or were you serious when you blew off your sister back in San Diego?" Darien ventured.

Hobbes sighed again. "I thought you were here to keep me from gettin' involved," he reminded his partner.

"Yeah, but this is your  _family_ , Hobbes. You never bail on a partner, I just figured that your personal philosophy would kinda extend to your relatives, you know?" Darien commented.

"Yeah, well, it doesn't. Fawkes, you're not gettin' it, here. I start messing in my family's business, I risk getting myself canned. I'm not exactly in a position to find employment in the spook biz anywhere else. Those bridges got burned a long time back." He shifted his grip on the pole he was holding onto, swaying with the rhythm of the train's movement.

Darien scowled. "But what if your cousin really is in witness protection somewhere?" he asked. "Don't you want to know about it?"

"Fawkes, my cousin Charlie has been flirting with the Mob since he got married twelve years ago. He's got a country club wife and a small businessman's income. What are the odds that he's gone state's evidence?" he asked impatiently. "What were my brothers tryin' to sell you on, huh? Usin' our government connections to try and track him down for them, so they can help whoever it is he's in hot water with pop a cap in him? Charlie may be a schmuck, but he doesn't deserve to get fingered by his own family, ok?"

"You really think that's what they're after?" Darien asked, unconvinced. "When I was talking to Jake, he made it sound like they were really worried about him."

Hobbes massaged the back of his neck and eyed his partner. "Alright, give me the pitch from the top, Fawkes," he requested. "What exactly was it they want from you?"

Darien made a face and turned his attention to the subway map on the wall of the train car. "You want the whole story?" he asked without looking at Bobby.

"Hit the high spots," Hobbes advised. "And start by telling me how the hell you got Jake to open up to you."

"What does it matter? The point is he sounded legit. When your cousin got mixed up in whatever it is that has everyone in an uproar, your brothers went snooping around to see if they could find out what was goin' on and whose toes he might have stepped on. According to Jake, some middle management type out in Atlantic City was makin' a takeover move on Charlie's business when he got involved in some sort of construction scam. They don't know much more than that, except that this Atlantic City player is making himself really unpopular with the New York power brokers cuz he's crowding their interests in the boardwalk casinos." Darien swayed as the train swerved around a curve, then continued. "So what he wanted from us was to find out if Charlie's gone AWOL, or if he's thinking about testifying, or what. Jake was basically hoping we could tell them if his body'd turned up anywhere…"

Hobbes considered this briefly. "Lemme me give you a working translation, Fawkes; what we have here is my cousin Charlie wandering into the middle of a turf war between the New York concerns and the new money in AC. Whatever Charlie got into, my brothers are afraid that he's gone state's evidence and is gonna mess up their position with whatever crew they owe their allegiance to. We find out he's in witness protection and we tell them, they'll track him down and kill him themselves, just to prove their loyalty. Tell me what Charlie gains by me messing with this, Fawkes?" Bobby wanted to know.

Darien shrugged. "Why do we have to tell them?" he asked with a sparkle in his brown eyes. "From what your brother said, this cousin of yours was an alright guy, back when you were spending summers working for him. So think about  _that_ guy, ok? The one who gave you a place to go, when you were outta high school for the summer."

"Jake told you about that, huh?" Hobbes said quietly.

"So did you, a while ago. But Jake filled in a few more details. Charlie sounded like he gave you a break, put you on the payroll, gave you a place away from the rest of your family to hang in the summers. Kinda like my aunt Celia did for me and my brother, after my mom died." Darien's voice was gentle, soft enough to barely be heard over the rattle of the train and the murmur of voices.

"You're playing the 'family' card on me, aren't you? Well, I'm tellin' you, it ain't like that for me. However weird it was, you had a brother and a mom who cared about you. Yeah, Charlie hired me on in the summers, but it wasn't like I didn't  _earn_  my paycheck, right?" Bobby asserted a little defensively.

"Right," Darien agreed, the quiet confidence in the word telling his partner that a great deal more was expected.

Bobby swore under his breath. "Don't do this, Fawkes. Don't guilt me into something I'm gonna regret all the way to the unemployment line…" he glared at Darien, taking in the expectant look in Fawkes' expression, the certainty that Hobbes would admit to the inevitable, then gritted his teeth. "You're fired, buddy. As a watchdog you're a total wash. You know what the Fish is gonna say when he finds out we're pokin' our noses in where they don't belong, right? So when he cans my bacon, I'm gonna be camping on your floor."

Darien's grin widened. "Hey, Charlie's family. You don't bail on him, any more than you bail on your partner. Right?"

Bobby sighed. "Okay, fine. But when the Fat Man wants to know how we got sucked into this whole mess, your name is Hoover, pal. Got it?" He shook his head when Darien's grin turned into a full-out laugh, and elected to change the subject. "Tell me somethin', Fawkes. You had my family pegged as connected right off the bat. Give me your breakdown on the things that tipped you off."

Darien recognized his partner in instructor mode when he heard it, and shook his head. "I'd'a studied harder if I knew there was gonna be a test," he muttered.

"See, that's your problem, Fawkes," Bobby told him impatiently. "What you gotta realize, my friend, is that in this business,  _everything_  is a test. And if you flunk, you don't just wind up with an 'F', you wind up dead. Especially when you're messin' with the Mob. So spill it, already."

"Hobbesy, it was written all over them. That Rolex your brother Jake was wearing? It'd pay the Agency's overhead for six months. But the car they were driving was a basic Lincoln Towncar. Nice, but no big deal. I've seen lower-level management types before, you know. Even did business with a few before I decided it was too risky. I like my independence, and I got good at keeping it. I wasn't interested in subcontracting. And I sure as hell didn't want to target one Castagnacci's boys by mistake, or I'd'a wound up with my hands cut off. Isn't that what they do to thieves?" Darien asked sarcastically.

"That's an Islamic tradition. The Mob'd just as soon kill you. Better as a warning for other morons who think they can put one over on them." Hobbes disagreed, still scowling.

Darien shrugged, then lowered his head, breaking eye contact with his partner. "'Sides, he was cool as soon as I told him I used to run with Castagnacci's boys, back in San Diego," Darien admitted reluctantly.

Hobbes shook his head in exasperation. "You told them about that? Crap. What were you thinkin', Fawkes? You know how it makes me look when my partner tells my mobbed-up family that he ran with a West Coast thug before I straightened him out?"

"Well, if  _my_  partner had bothered to fill me in on the proper etiquette for introducing myself to his 'mobbed-up' relatives, maybe I wouldn't have compromised his honor or something!" Darien responded with equal annoyance. "I wanted to find out what he wanted, and I figured the fastest way was to just cut to the chase. But I had to get him to trust me or I wasn't gonna get anywhere in a hurry, right? So where's the harm in taking credit for hangin' with his bruthas in San Diego? So to speak."

"Harm? Fawkes, you're playing Russian Roulette with my career!" Hobbes squawked in disbelief. "How far do you think I'd've gotten in the Marines, not to mention the CIA or the FBI, with a connected family on my records?!"

Darien cocked a cynical eyebrow at this. "I dunno," he pointed out dryly." I don't have a clue how far you got anywhere, cuz, hey, you never talk about it. No, instead, I get to hear about camel dung and shrapnel wounds and Arafat."

Bobby snorted. "You've made it pretty clear you couldn't care less what I did when, Fawkes," he said testily. "Besides, you're missing the point. The only thing I have going for me is the fact that up to now, no one in my family has been charged on RICO statute violations, and I had someone like Jack Lynch in my corner. He was decorated in Korea, worked his way up through the ranks in the NYPD, and got me nominated for West Point. But I wanted to do things my way, on my own brass, so I joined the Marines. Spent long enough in the corps to get from sniper duty into military intelligence, and after the Embassy bombing in Beirut, and some of the snafus in Desert Storm, I decided I wanted in on the big picture. Damned if I was gonna lose any more friends to screwed up intel." He paused, glaring a little at Fawkes. "When I went to apply to the CIA, I found out just what kinda liability my family is. You ain't never had to go through the background check every other Federal Agent has to go through, Fawkes. You were brought in because you were a punk with a Brainiac brother who used his pull to cut you a deal."

Darien opened his mouth to protest the unfairness of this, then thought better of it. "Yeah, so I got dragooned. How is that my fault?" he asked sulkily. "No, wait. Don't tell me; if I hadn't had my fingers in other people's cookie jars, I wouldn't have needed Kevin to play Monte Hall and make me a deal. So my past is on the record, and it isn't your average untarnished agent's background. So what? And what difference does it make that yours isn't, either? You've never been average, Hobbes. It doesn't make you any less of a kick-ass agent!"

Hobbes was about to disagree, then thought better of it and eyed Darien as the last few words sank in. "Kick-ass, huh?" he said, trying to stifle the grin threatening to creep over his face.

Darien grinned back at him. "Yeah," was the reply, as he reacted to Bobby's satisfied low five with the appropriate response.

"Damn right," Hobbes confirmed as they rapped knuckles.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Three

 

_Given the way my life has turned out, I've had to develop a certain appreciation for irony. And I gotta admit, finding out about the skeleton in Bobby's closet was an irony I'd be savoring for a long time. Especially since his family was obviously of the opinion that my partner was the skeleton in **their**  closet. I guess the Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw said it best. "If you can't get  **rid**  of the skeleton in your closet, you'd best teach it to dance." Good advice. The problem was, it wasn't clear whether it'd be Bobby, or his family, doin' the dancing…_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Agent Fawkes, there are roaming charges associated with calls outside our area!" Eberts' anxious protest came tinnily over the cell phone as he recognized Darien's cheerful greeting.

"Chill, Eberts. I wouldn't be calling if it wasn't important, right? Or at least I wouldn't be calling  _you_ ," Darien teased the accountant. "I need you to do me a favor. I wanna find out if you can track down a name and see if there's any record of him in witness protection, or the local hospitals or morgue, even."

"Darien, your assignment was to keep Agent Hobbes from becoming involved in whatever problems his family has, not aid and abet him!"

"Hey, whadda ya think I'm doing?" Darien defended himself. "Look, his cousin Charlie's gone missing. Last anyone apparently heard is that he was being targeted by some mobster in Atlantic City. The rumor is, he's dead, but Bobby's afraid that he may have turned state's evidence, and if he has, he's fair game for the rest of his family. All I'm trying to do is find out what the hell is going on, so I can get Hobbes outta here without shooting him with one'a Claire's tranquilizers."

"I'm sorry, Darien, but I really don't think -"

"That's right, Eberts, don't think. Just play it safe and do what you're told," Darien switched tactics, knowing that guilt would accomplish far more than threats or entreaties. "If I don't find out what happened to Bobby's cousin, there's gonna be no stopping him. You know how he gets when there's someone he cares about involved. Right?"

"Robert is well aware that he's not to become embroiled with his family," Eberts asserted stubbornly.

"Uh-huh, and what army is gonna stop him?" Darien inquired cynically.

A long silence met this question. "I take your point, Darien. Very well, I'll see what I can find out. I assume I can reach you at this number?" the Agency secretary and all-purpose fount of information asked tersely.

"No, you'll have to call directory assistance," was Darien's sarcastic rejoinder; then he relented, apparently rethinking the wisdom of antagonizing someone whose help he needed. "Yeah, Eberts, you can catch me on this line." Darien disconnected the cell phone and smirked at his partner. "See? What'd I tell ya?" he gloated. "I tol' ya I could make Eberts toe the line," Darien said happily, rolling onto his back on the twin bed in the room he'd shared with Hobbes the night preceding.

Bobby sighed, still conflicted over the question of defying his own history and connections in order to aid another branch of the family tree. "The little wuss was bound to cave, Fawkes. The question is, will he cover our asses when we hang them out there for everyone to see?" Hobbes inquired skeptically from his seat on the edge of his own twin bed.

"Well, I dunno know about you, partner, but I don't have anything to worry about, there. My butt's been in a sling since I got involved with this agency. Too late too worry about it now," he informed Hobbes.

"That's what you think," Hobbes muttered as he shoved a foot into his Doc Martin and bent to lace it. "The sorta sling our tuchuses'll be in with the Mob if we mess this up will make Soledad look like a slumber party."

Darien snorted cynically, lacing his fingers behind his head and wriggling his bare feet in the air where they hung off the end of the bed. "I wasn't exactly born yesterday, Hobbes," he complained. "I've been around, done enough to get the big picture, ok? I know they're trouble, you don't have to keep reminding me!"

Bobby put on the other shoe and glared at Fawkes across the floor space that separated the two beds. "Smart aleck," he scolded. "C'mon, you slug, it's after ten in the morning. This was your brilliant idea and we've got a long drive to get out to Jersey. I've already called and told Deb that we'll be there, so rise and shine, Fawkesy," he urged his partner.

Darien groaned unhappily and rolled onto his side, dropping long legs off the edge of the mattress and from there rose in one fluid move to stand stretching, his t-shirt and pajama bottoms rumpled. "Yessir, Sergeant Hobbes, sir," he sassed his partner, snapping off a sloppy salute.

Bobby grimaced at him. "Just be glad you never had me as a Drill Instructor, Fawkes, I'd'a run that bony rear end of yours into the ground," he replied with his best military bark. "Now move it, will ya?"

 

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They collected their rental car and began the three-hour drive to Toms River, a smallish but upscale mixed suburb made up of retirement communities, family homes and pricey condo developments along the southern coastal area of New Jersey that Hobbes' cousin Charlie Steinman called home. Hobbes spent the entire trip trying to get his partner to stop roaming through the car's radio frequencies in search of something to listen to.

"Alright, enough already!" Bobby announced impatiently, slapping Darien's hand away from the radio for the umpteenth time. "What is this fascination you've got for the radio all of a sudden?" he asked, shooting a look over at the passenger seat where Darien was stretched comfortably in a semi-reclined position.

"Well at least the radio works, Hobbes. More'n I can say about the junk heaps the Agency has in its motor pool," Darien pointed out. "Too bad we can't drive around in a set of wheels like this, huh?" he asked, running a possessive hand over the burlwood inserts that housed the power windows, climate controls and a whole array of unfamiliar bells and whistles.

"Hey, Golda's never let us down in a pinch, partner," Hobbes defended the deceptively worn-looking van he usually drove. "I've upgraded every system in her," he reminded Darien. "'Sides, it's better for low-key surveillance."

"Oh, give me a break, Hobbes, she's in the Agency's garage as often as she's out of it. Besides, that van is an eyesore! There's nothin' inconspicuous about it." Fawkes countered, fiddling with the temperature controls to increase the output from the air conditioner.

"Would you cut it out? This thing is comin' outta my paycheck if you screw anything up," Bobby reminded, swatting at Fawkes again, making the car swerve slightly.

"Would you just drive, Bobby?" Darien suggested, clutching at the armrest as Hobbes brought the car back into the correct lane.

Hobbes made a face and repeated the comment  _sotto voce_  with considerable sarcasm. "Look, you punk, the only reason we're drivin' a luxury car is cuz that's all they had left, ok?" he reminded his partner.

"So let me enjoy it, why don't you, instead of trying to get both of us killed?" Darien began. "This is probably the first time I've ridden in a $30,000 car without having someone pointing a gun at me, or taking me somewhere to get my ass kicked. I'd kinda like to live long enough to groove on the ride," he smirked at his smaller partner.

"You give me any more lip, and an ass-kicking is a serious possibility, my friend," Bobby warned.

They continued their friendly squabbling all the way to Toms River, finally pulling into the driveway of an upscale tract home with a handsomely manicured front yard. Hobbes turned off the engine and ran a hand over the top of his head, smoothing the sparse remains of his hair self-consciously.

"How long's it been since you've seen your cousin?" Darien inquired, picking up on Bobby's discomfort.

"A while," Hobbes shrugged. "And his wife… only met her once, at the wedding, twelve years ago. Real social climber-type. None of us could figure out why she picked Charlie, except maybe cuz he had the most potential of whoever was sniffin' around her at the time," was the cynical observation.

"Don't you think you're bein' kinda hard on her? Maybe she loves him," Darien unfastened his seatbelt and opened the passenger door, the blast of hot, muggy New Jersey air a bit of a shock after the perfectly controlled environment of the car on the trip down.

"Wait till you meet her, how 'bout?" Hobbes snorted derisively, climbing out of the driver's side and shutting the car door, locking the vehicle with the remote.

Darien followed his partner up the front walk towards the door, glancing around the neighborhood. The black Infinity Q45 they'd driven up in looked as if it belonged there, the cars in nearby driveways reflective of similar budgets. His old thieves' reflexes were a-twitch at the larcenous potential in this little bedroom community, and he entertained himself with creating a 'shopping list' for a hypothetical nighttime acquisition excursion as Hobbes rang the doorbell.

The delay before the door opened was almost long enough that Bobby was lifting his hand to ring again, when the oak-and-glass paned front door opened to reveal a woman in her late thirties, decidedly the worse for wear. Her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, her hair scraggly, looking as though it was in need of a long overdue washing. She wore no makeup, and it took a considerable amount of imagination to recognize her as the same beaming bride in the collection of wedding photos on the wall behind her. "Yes?" she sniffled, making a futile attempt to smooth her dark blonde hair into some sort of order. "Can I help you?"

"Deb? Deborah?" Bobby said uncertainly, visibly at a loss.

She nodded. "Yeah. Deborah Steinman," she confirmed, her eyes suddenly swimming and liquid again.

"It's me, Bobby. Bobby Hobbes," Hobbes identified himself, all traces of his earlier cynicism gone from his tone.

"Bobby! Oh, thank god," she wailed as she threw herself into the astonished Agent's arms, sobbing on his shoulder in near hysterics.

Darien watched this display, perplexed. This was not the picture of grasping social climber he'd expected. This was a wife whose husband was missing, and who was clearly terrified of the reason for his disappearance.

"Hey, hey, hey," Bobby soothed the distraught woman in his arms, holding her carefully, but with enough strength that she would feel his presence. "It's alright, I'm here. I'll find him," he assured her, voice low and melodious, the tone one Darien recognized.It was the one Hobbes used to calm overwrought witnesses, small children and weeping women. He watched as Hobbes gentled her, running hands up and down her back comfortingly, and watched the reassurance work its magic.

Slowly Deborah's sobs turned to sniffles, and finally, she wiped a forearm across her eyes, raising her head to manage a watery smile. "Thank god you're here," she told her cousin-in-law, her relief palpable. "Come in, please," she invited, stepping out of Hobbes' careful embrace and moving back into her entryway, standing aside to let them in. "Who's your friend?" she asked, smiling at Darien questioningly.

Hobbes waved a hand at Fawkes. "Darien Fawkes, my partner," he made the introduction, and then continued, completing the other half of the formalities. "Fawkes, my cousin Charlie's wife, Deborah Steinman."

Obediently, Darien took her offered hand. "Nice to meet you," he said, revising his opinion of her. The smile was most definitely that of the plumply pretty young woman in the pictures on the wall.

They were led into the living room, a high-ceilinged spacious place tastefully if impersonally furnished. Basic interior decorator, Darien speculated. The lack of eclectic personal mementos was a dead giveaway. He and Hobbes made themselves comfortable in a pair of overstuffed club chairs, while Deborah settled on the couch, tucking her feet up under her with disarming casualness. "Becky said she'd try and call you, but she told me not to get my hopes up," Deb said with another grateful smile at Hobbes.

Hobbes shrugged a little uncomfortably, and Darien spared a slight smirk of satisfaction. He was feeling forgivably smug at the reception Bobby had gotten, like the welcome reserved for returning conquerors or superheroes.

"Yeah, well, it's not Charlie's fault I'm not on speaking terms with the rest of 'em," Bobby admitted. He shrugged again. "I figured he's family, I gotta do what I can." He leaned back, expression going intent, and Darien knew his partner the investigator was making his appearance. "So, tell me what happened," he urged.

Darien sat back in his own chair silently, prepared to listen.

"It's all my fault," Deb sniffled, getting teary-eyed again. "If I hadn't kept pushing him…" she trailed off, gathering her resolve, then locked eyes with Hobbes and began her story.

The better part of an hour later, they had a vivid glimpse of life in the Steinman household, with all its trials and tribulations, and Darien knew more than he'd ever wanted to about the state of the Steinman's marriage. He definitely felt as if he'd been burdened with a great deal more information that he'd really needed to know, and stealing a look at Hobbes, saw that Bobby was in a similar state of information overload. Hobbes continued making polite conversation as he wrote down names and addresses on a little notepad, while Darien brooded on what Deborah Steinman had told them.

The truncated version, with scattered bouts of hand-wringing omitted, was basically the story of an overstressed businessman with a financially demanding wife, who, in the wake of a particularly long series of heated arguments about all the material things Deb was still lacking, had either been approached by, or sought out, known connections with the local Mob in the hopes of finding ways to supplement an already handsome income earned more or less legitimately as an electrical contractor.

Darien had been impressed at Deb's unflinching admissions of responsibility for her behavior, and he believed her when she told Hobbes that she would give anything for another chance with her husband. Clearly, Hobbes believed her, too, despite his poor opinion of her prior to the interview. The fact that she had given them the names of anyone, up to and including her husband's girlfriend on the side, who might conceivably know what had become of Charlie was also a mark in her favor. Darien had been silently amused at the blush that had darkened Hobbes' face at this particular piece of news, Bobby covering his embarrassment with a slightly stammered request for the other woman's name and address, which he wrote down with studious avoidance of his cousin-in-law's eyes.

Darien's attention was distracted from the conclusion of the interview by the muted electronic bleat from the cell phone in his hip pocket. He retrieved the little phone and rose from the chair as he answered, stepping out through the French doors onto a slate patio outside the living room. "Hey, Eberts, what's the news, my man?" he asked, the phone's caller ID function telling him who was on the other end of the line.

"Hello, Darien,'" was the Executive Assistant's formal greeting. "I've been reviewing all electronic databases we have access to, and I've able to ascertain that neither Charles Steinman, nor anyone resembling his physical description, has appeared in any of the local ERs from New York City to Atlantic City in the last week, nor has anyone using his social security number received medical care from any licensed physician in New York or New Jersey in the past four months. There are three morgues, one in Camden, one in Trenton, and one in Philadelphia, who report having a John Doe of Mr. Steinman's general description, and I've taken the liberty of having copies of his dental records sent to each of them in the hopes that his presence in the ME's offices can be ruled out," Eberts related with understandable satisfaction.

Darien whistled softly. "You've been busy," he complimented, impressed at Eberts' thoroughness. He was vaguely aware of Hobbes stepping out onto the patio, and he waved off his partner's questions impatiently as he asked the next obvious question of the Agency's database expert. "Any of his credit cards been used, lately?" he wanted to know.

"Only the two in his wife's name. The last recorded activity on any of Mr. Steinman's cards was at the Rawhide Club in Atlantic City, 10 days ago."

"The Rawhide Club?" Darien repeated incredulously. "What is that? Some kinda western bar or something?"

There was an embarrassed throat-clearing from Eberts before he answered. "It is, I believe, a… gentleman's club," was the awkward confession.

"You mean like a strip club," Darien answered, enlightened.

"Fawkes, ask him-" Bobby reached for the cell phone, but Darien evaded his efforts, waving him off.

"Yes, Darien. I made note of the address of the place, should your investigation take you in that direction," Eberts said officiously.

Fawkes snorted. "I'll bet you checked out the website, too," he joked.

"Fawkes," Hobbes interrupted again, making a second grab for the phone. This time he was successful.

"Hey!" Darien protested, trying to repossess the phone, only to have Hobbes dodge him and take over the call.

"Eberts," Bobby said into the phone, flipping through the notes he'd taken to the page that held names and addresses. "I need whatever you can get on the following names. Especially phone numbers, if you can find 'em," he told the hapless assistant on the other end of the line, rattling them off fast enough that Darien hoped Eberts was in front of his computer, where his speed-typing skills would be of use in capturing the verbal deluge.

"You done?" he asked Hobbes sarcastically when the smaller man had finished, snatching the phone from his partner. "You still there, Eberts?" he asked into the mouthpiece.

"Yes, Darien," was Eberts' sigh. "Now what?"

"Can you find out which families are heaviest into the New Jersey action, especially the casinos? Any of their middle management types'll do. We're tryin' to find out which one of them cousin Charlie got mixed up with," he clarified.

"I'll see what the Department of Justice databases have on file with regards to Mafia activity in the area," was the resigned response, and Darien thanked him and hung up.

"So whaddid he have to say?" Hobbes asked, the nervous tension in him reminding Darien that Bobby still didn't know whether or not his cousin was alive. He squelched his annoyance and took pity on his partner.

"According to what Eberts found out, no one matching Charlie's description and social security number has had any run-ins with the medical profession in the past few months. There were only three morgues with possible John Does -" he paused for a split second as Bobby paled, then blundered on; "- and he's already sent them the dental records to try and rule them out." He peered at Hobbes anxiously, watching as the older man made a visible effort to get his mind back on the investigation, and off the uncertainty of his cousin's fate.

"Crap," Bobby muttered, then squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. "Okay, first stop is Charlie's office. Deb's calling ahead to let his guys know we're coming and that it's safe to talk to us," he announced firmly, looking up at Darien with a certain grim fierceness that Fawkes was all too familiar with. Hobbes had just hit full battle mode, and heaven help anyone who got in his way.

"Lead on," Darien told him, waving Hobbes back toward the French doors.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Steinman Electric occupied a quarter of a warehouse in the industrial area of town. While far from glamorous, it was obviously a thriving enterprise, if the half-dozen full-sized pickup trucks outfitted with enough bins and compartments to make even a packrat happy were any indication. They walked up the wooden stairs leading to the offices above the floor of the warehouse space, Darien looking down on the well-organized chaos of shelves of supplies and spools of wire in every possible gauge as he trailed after a purposeful Hobbes. It seemed odd to realize that he was catching a glimpse of his partner's past, and that thought distracted him so that he almost ran into Bobby at the top of the stairs as they reached the office door.

Hobbes shot him an irritable look, nudging Darien back down a step so he had enough elbow room to turn the doorknob. "Watch where you're going, will ya?" he suggested, stepping into the control center of the company.

A harassed looking heavy-set woman behind a desk glanced their way without missing a beat in her argument with whomever was on the other end of the phone she held pinched between her ear and shoulder. The fingers flying over her computer keyboard never faltered for a moment, either. Fawkes and Hobbes took up a position in front of her desk, settling there in their version of parade rest, which ordinarily entailed a nonsensical running dialogue between them. This time however, Hobbes was far too intent to spare the time for their usual banter, and after attempting to lure him into conversation, Darien sighed and resigned himself to an afternoon in the company of Hobbes in 'bad cop' mode. This assessment was confirmed when Bobby, tiring of being ignored, reached over and depressed the contacts in the phone's cradle, disconnecting the call.

"What the -" the woman snapped, all of her considerable attention now focused on them. If Hobbes hadn't been there, Darien might have been intimidated. Her demeanor bore a striking resemblance to that of his fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Billotti, the most feared elementary school doyen in Cold Springs. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" she demanded of Hobbes, all of her numerous chins quivering with righteous indignation. "I have a business to run, here!"

"And we have a few questions to ask, lady," Bobby responded with equal heat. "Where is Charlie Steinman?"

The woman's puffy eyes narrowed and she scowled at them. "That's none of your business," she replied warily. "Who are you two?"

Darien fished out his wallet, flipping it open to the Fish and Game badge that filled one side of the leather billfold. "Agents Darien Fawkes and Robert Hobbes," he told her, flipping the leather back over the badge before she could do more than catch a glimpse. "We've been asked by Mrs. Steinman to look into her husband's disappearance, Ms…" he informed the woman, hoping to fall into the role of 'good cop' by default.

"Francis," she conceded, distracted as the office door opened and a burly bearded man stuck his head into the office.

"Everything ok, Natalie?" the interloper asked with proprietary concern.

"Yeah, Dougie, just a coupl'a badges lookin' for Charlie," she answered.

Reluctantly, the beefy Galahad shut the office door and retreated down the steps.

"Look, Ms. Francis -" Hobbes started.

" _Mrs_. Francis, bub," she corrected with a certain belligerence.

" _Mrs_. Francis," Hobbes snapped, mimicking her emphasis. "Deborah Steinman asked us to look into her husband's disappearance -"

"That gold-digger? Hell, the only reason she wants to know where he is cuz she misses the paychecks comin' in!" was Natalie's unflattering assessment. "I wouldn't tell her where he was, even if I knew," she added, her scowl intensifying. "If it wasn't for her, he wouldn't'a made the deal he did with D'Amato's boys and gotten himself all jammed up. The stupid moron thinks with his little head, just like every other man on the planet. I swear, I don't know what the hell Charlie sees in her. Even the stripper he's boffing on the side knows better than to treat him like a cash cow! But no, what little prom-queen Debbie wants, he tries to get it for her. And he's so whipped, he half-kills himself tryin' to make it happen."

Bobby and Darien stared down at her, mouths agape in the aftershock of the vitriolic character assassination they'd just heard.

Shaking himself out of his stunned surprise, Darien put on his most winningly earnest look. "He has a girlfriend? Can you tell us her name?" he asked, wondering if it would match the one Deborah Steinman had given them.

"Annabelle Jardinere," was Natalie's contemptuous answer. "Yeah. It's a stage name, like that'll preserve her privacy when she's on stage taking off every stitch she's got on," the acerbic commentary continued.

Beside him, Darien was aware of Hobbes flipping through his notes to locate the ones he'd made on Deb's rival for her husband's affections. "Uhm, would you happen to know where she… uh, performs?" Fawkes asked.

Natalie Francis's snort of derision spoke volumes. "A lovely little garden spot in Atlantic City called the Rawhide Club," she said, confirming Darien's guess.

"Thank you, Mrs. Francis, you've been very helpful," he smiled, exerting himself in the charm department to see if he could coax some sort of expression from Natalie other than the chronic scowl. To his satisfaction, her face softened, and abruptly, traces of what had once been a pretty woman were visible again.

"You find him? Tell him the boys and I're pullin' for him. He's an ok guy, Agent Fawkes. I hope he's alright, wherever he is," she added with what appeared to be genuine affection for her vanished employer.

"We'll be sure to do that," Darien agreed, taking Bobby by the elbow and hustling him out of the office before Hobbes' temper reasserted itself and got them into further trouble with the harridan who ran Charlie's office.

 

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It was nearly an hour's drive to Atlantic City in the evening commute traffic, an hour Hobbes spent the majority of in a full-blown rant on the nature of Charlie's hired help, namely, one Mrs. Natalie Francis.

Darien was thoroughly tired of the subject by the time Hobbes found a parking space that suited his suddenly overprotective streak where their rented wheels were concerned. Fawkes practically tripped over his own feet in his hurry to escape the now claustrophobic interior of the car.

They walked the short three blocks to the back alley locale that housed the Rawhide Club, Darien making a concerted effort to tune out Hobbes' relentless diatribe, pushing his way into the dim and noisy interior. He took a cursory look around, nothing striking him as especially different about this particular party palace. Strip clubs all tended to look alike, and he'd avoided them religiously since the gland had been implanted. Its sensitivity to adrenaline was a distinct liability in this type of environment. He did his best to ignore the expanses of bare female flesh bucking and gyrating on the elevated platform to the accompaniment of hoots and catcalls from the male patrons clustered at the tables below the stage.

Hobbes pushed past Darien as he hesitated, attention diverted helplessly by one particularly nimble dancer who bore a passing resemblance to one of his favorite actresses.

"What is it with you today, Fawkes?" Bobby asked, cranky at having been ignored the entire drive. "You're a little big to just be stopping in the middle of things like this," he chastised.

"Doesn't that girl look like Mira Sorvino?" Darien asked, never taking his eyes off the performer in question.

"Sure she does, Fawkes. Get real. Mira Sorvino moonlighting at a strip joint? In your dreams, my friend, in your dreams," Hobbes dismissed the resemblance.

Darien lingered a moment until he realized his smaller partner had vanished into the crowd. Sighing, he turned his attention to trying to find Bobby in the teeming masses of rowdy males and scantily clad waitresses.

It took a good fifteen minutes, time in which Darien grew more and more edgy, nervous that his control of the gland was not up to an extended stay in Naughtyville. Finally, across the club, he caught sight of Bobby in earnest conversation with what could only be the club's manager. He waded through the crowds, trusting that his exceptional height would catch Hobbes attention as he approached. As before, Hobbes internal radar was flawless, and he looked Darien's way, waving him on, as Fawkes neared his position.

"There you are," Hobbes greeted him with exasperation. "Joey Schmidt, here, is the manager of this little gold mine. He says Annabelle'll be strutting her stuff tonight. She's scheduled to go on in an hour."

"An  _hour_?" Darien squawked plaintively, feeling his already shaky control slip further at the idea.

Hobbes gave him a puzzled look. "What, you don't like the scenery?" he asked.

"The scenery's just fine, Hobbes," Darien answered through gritted teeth. "Too fine. That's the problem!"

Bobby just looked at him blankly.

"Hey, chill out, have a coupl'a drinks on the house, watch the show, and I'll let youse know when Anna gets here, right?" the club manager interjected into the tense silence. "Never let it be said that Joey Schmidt didn't know how to show a coupl'a working dudes a good time!" the bonhomie was genuine, as far as Darien could tell, and he wondered a little desperately what tale Hobbes had spun to give the manager the impression that they were somehow connected.

"Hobbes, I don't think this is such a good idea," he directed the comment at Hobbes, who ignored it.

"Sounds like a plan, my man," Hobbes addressed Schmidt, who turned to lead the way to a slightly up-scale table among the masses, one with an unobstructed view of the activity on the stage.

Darien dragged along in his wake, feeling the uneasy prickle of the Quicksilver just below the level of conscious control. "Hobbes," he whined as his partner took a seat at the offered table. The glower Bobby threw his way made him swallow his next words and he settled into the next seat unhappily, wondering if he could somehow move his chair so that he faced away from the stage.

Schmidt was waving a waitress their way, and with a twinge of near panic, Fawkes realized it was the Mira Sorvino clone he'd admired before. "Hey, baby, say hi to a coupl'a out of town players," Schmidt encouraged the simpering girl. "Mr. Hobbes, Mia'll be your own personal gopher this evening. Enjoy," he smiled at Bobby, then turned to the girl again. "Mia, honey, anything these nice gentlemen want, they get. On the house. Got it?" he asked, the tone going from jovial host to difficult employer in a heartbeat.

"Got it Mr. Schmidt," she agreed with alacrity, suiting actions to words as she settled into Darien's lap like a child ready to present Santa Claus with her wish list. "As long as you're the one I get to take home," she whispered in Darien's ear as she nipped his earlobe.

Fawkes felt the familiar and definitely unwelcome shiver of Quicksilver as the gland asserted itself in response to the surge of adrenaline pouring through his bloodstream. "Oh, crap," he moaned shakily, standing hurriedly and almost dumping his passenger on her rear end in his haste. He dodged through the tables, his speed picking up with every step as he fled for the sanctuary of the restroom.

Back at the table, Hobbes reached down a hand to the startled girl, pulling her to her feet. "Prostate problems," he informed her sagely as she raised an eyebrow at the rapidly retreating figure of Darien Fawkes.

 

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True to his word, Joey Schmidt, strip-club impresario and all around goodfella, returned perhaps an hour later with a statuesque dancer in tow. The girl was still tugging her gold-braid-bedecked costume into place, what there was of it, as she tripped along behind Schmidt in her stilettos, so she wasn't paying as much attention to where she was going as she might have. Which resulted in an impressive collision with a returning Darien, who was caught unprepared when the stunning brunette rammed him in the ribs with her elbow, driving all the air from his lungs with a grunted 'oooommph'. The impact was enough to make him lose his balance and he stumbled a step or two, practically pulling off her postage-stamp bra before fetching up against the back of another patron's chair, who cursed him out with considerable color while Darien prayed for his lungs to expand again so he could speak.

"Oh, sorry," was the contrite if vapid apology as the girl steadied him with a hand under the elbow.

Darien managed a nod as his cramping intercostal muscles finally began to relax and he sucked in a deep breath in relief. "No problem," he whispered hoarsely as he pulled out a chair for her, waiting till she seated herself then sitting down himself. Joey, uninvited, settled in the fourth chair, beaming at them.

Hobbes, wearing his tough-guy persona like a thousand dollar suit, smiled warmly at Annabelle, then turned a chill frown on Schmidt. "This is a private conversation, you mind?" he hinted.

Darien was once again impressed at his partner's role-playing ability, recognizing the icily dangerous steel in Bobby's voice and eyes. A 'don't mess with me' look if he'd ever seen one. If he hadn't known Bobby, worked with him so closely for over two years, he might have had the same reaction Schmidt did. Fawkes watched the color drain out of the club manager's face as he hastily rose and excused himself, backing away . The charming smile Hobbes turned on Annabelle was as different as sunshine from a thunderstorm, and the girl basked under his sudden warmth, the momentary uneasiness in her face thawing.

"So, Annabelle; lovely name for a lovely woman," Hobbes flirted smoothly, giving Darien a few more minutes to regain his breath.

She smiled. "Oh, it's just a stage name," she admitted easily. "It's kinda hard to make it in the exotic dancer world with a name like Martha Hatfield," she giggled.

Bobby's eyes widened, his eyebrows crawling up his forehead in surprise. "You serious?" he asked disbelievingly. " _Martha_? Your parents saddled you with a name like that?" At the girl's nod, he shook his head. "Well, Annabelle suits you better, babe," he told her firmly. "Listen, we've got a question for you. It's kinda gotten around that you've been seeing Charlie Steinman," he began, segueing into the real reason for their visit without a pause, waiting for her response in the form of a nod before he continued. "Yeah, well, my pal, here, and I've got some business deals in the works with him, and he's gone missing. We were kinda hopin' maybe he was staying with you, since we know he's having a little disagreement with his missus," Hobbes went on, voice soothing, mellow, encouraging her trust, inviting her confidence. Annabelle's pretty forehead furrowed uncertainly as she glanced from one to the other of them, Darien having enough presence of mind to manage a reassuring smile with his best earnest puppy eyes. He knew it was a look nearly guaranteed to win someone's trust, and he'd used it extensively in his former life as a thief and con man. It had also occasionally come in handy in his life as an agent for the US government.

Annabelle wavered, then succumbed to their combined efforts to set her at ease. "I haven't seen him in almost two weeks," she admitted worriedly. "I wish I knew where he was," she added.

Darien and Hobbes exchanged looks and Bobby probed gently for a few more minutes, until he was convinced that she was telling the truth and knew nothing about her gentleman friend's whereabouts. "Well, Anna, if you think of anything, you'll let me know, right?" Bobby concluded, fishing in his breast pocket and retrieving a business card with one of his alter-egos' business names, and his cell phone number. For good measure, he found a pen and added Darien's on the back.

Darien, who had remained more or less silent through the whole exchange, watching their guest's body language and mannerisms, was convinced that the girl was nowhere near as dim as she came across, and smiled at her. He knew he risked his partner's anger as he rose, presumably to ease her chair away from the table the way he'd seated her in the first place, instead, using his body weight where he leaned on the back of her chair to keep her from leaving. Her sharply worried look up at him as she realized she was effectively pinned made his conscience twinge a bit, but he didn't shift his position. "It's been a pleasure, Miss Jardinière," he told her. "But I really think you need to tell us the truth about what you know," he added, ignoring Hobbes frown of disapproval.

"What're you talking about?" she protested, a bit too forcefully, in Fawkes' opinion. "I already told you, I haven't seen him in almost two weeks!"

"Fawkes," Hobbes warned him.

Darien ignored the caution. "You may not have seen him, but maybe you've talked to him," he speculated, knowing he'd guessed right as she paled, though she remained stubbornly silent. "We know he's in trouble with one of his business contacts," Fawkes continued, quietly pleasant. "We're here to get him out of it, not make it worse. So how about it, Martha? How's about telling Bobby here where his cousin is?"

"Cousin?" The girl asked, startled, casting a fresh eye at Hobbes. "You don't look anything alike," she said suspiciously.

Bobby made a face. "He's my cousin, not my brother," he pointed out. "My mother's side of the family. I worked for him while I was in high school, back when he was just starting out," Hobbes admitted dryly, the suave mobster persona dropped like unneeded baggage.

Annabelle still looked unconvinced, but Fawkes could sense her wavering. "If we can't find him and get to the bottom of whatever mess he's gotten himself into, then Charlie's as good as dead. And you know it." He played his trump card, knowing that if she really cared about Charlie Steinman, then she would help them, provided he could push the right guilt buttons.

The girl ran a hand through her dark mane nervously, the vacant expression falling away as anxiety and worry took their place. Fawkes had to admire her skills as an actress as they finally caught a glimpse of the real Martha Hatfield. "Alright, alright," she gave in at last. "I really don't know where he is. He wouldn't let me go to him. He told me it was too dangerous, that I might be being watched." She shivered suddenly, hardly a surprise, given how little she was wearing, then went on. "I don't even have a phone number for him. He calls me every other night, after I get off work. I'm supposed to tell him who's been snooping around here, asking questions about him," she confessed.

"So who has?" Hobbes asked, intently, focused on her totally, any annoyance with Darien gone in the face of the first concrete evidence they'd found.

Annabelle hunched her shoulders unhappily. "Mike D'Amato's guys've been in every few days, hanging around, watching me." She shivered again. "I know they figure I'll lead them to Charlie eventually," she added. "I tried to tell them I don't know where he is, but they didn't believe me, either." The fear in her dark eyes was genuine, and Darien straightened, freeing her to get up if she wanted to.

He crouched beside her chair, bringing himself to her eye level before he spoke. "Whoever it is he's jammed up with, they are bad people. Now, Bobby'n me, we're the good guys, okay? If you talk to Charlie again, tell him his cousin Bobby Hobbes is in town, and is looking to bail him out. Got it?"

Annabelle nodded slightly, vague hope in her expression for the first time. "Next time he calls, I'll tell him," she agreed, scooting her chair back at last, so she could rise.

"Oh, hey, Anna?" Darien added as a seeming afterthought, "You know Natalie Francis, Charlie's office manager?" he inquired casually.

Annabelle's blush was incandescent, answer enough as far as the agent was concerned..

"She knows where he is, doesn't she? Neither of you much care for Deborah Steinman, so you figure helping him hide out may pry Charlie loose from her, right?" Darien speculated. He caught Hobbes' startled expression out of the corner of his eye but didn't let that distract him. "Natalie arranged for him to go AWOL, probably funneling money to him under some other name, somehow, or running it through the business, right? So where is he?"

Annabelle's expression was stony, defiant. "Ask her," she suggested as she got up gracefully and left without a backward glance.

"Nice work, Kemosabe," was Bobby's contented observation as they watched the dancer go. "But you're gonna have to talk to the Dragon Lady on your own. I don't think we'll get very far if I try and beard her in her den," he said, eyes glinting with amusement, apparently imagining the fireworks involved in another go-around with the formidable Natalie Francis.

"Oh, thanks heaps," Darien protested. "I got us this far, why can't you tackle the troll?" he complained, rising from his chair as Hobbes did.

They made their way towards the exit, still arguing.

"Hey, kid, the reward for a job well done is another job. No one ever tell you that?" Bobby asked as he held the door open and then followed Darien out into the muggy night air.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Four

 

It had taken all of Darien's considerable skills as a con man, and a call to Deborah Steinman confirming Hobbes' claim to be a family member, but finally, he'd talked a reluctant Natalie into calling her employer and getting his permission to tell them where he was hiding.

They were on their way back to Atlantic City for the second time in 24 hours and Darien was doing his best not to be a backseat driver as Hobbes wandered around the dreary outskirts of the boardwalk area looking for the obscure motel Charlie had chosen as a hide out. Finally, after their third trip around the same block, Darien sighed, unable to hold his tongue. "Can't we just ask someone? Or find a map, somewhere?" he suggested.

Bobby glared at him. "I told you already, Fawkes, this is my neck of the woods, I'll find the damn place, ok?"

"Bobby, we've been past that diner at least four times already," Darien griped. "Just find a service station, please? I gotta go, anyway."

"What, the 95 visits to the john at the Rawhide Club ain't gonna tide you over?" Hobbes sniped, but obediently turned into the driveway of the first service station he passed on their side of the street.

"That was last night," Darien defended himself. "And it was three times, not 95," he added as he unfolded himself from the passenger seat of the Infinity, glowering over his shoulder at his partner. "And there were extenuating circumstances!"

He entered the gas station and located the clerk, asking for a map and the key to the restroom, getting both. By the time he returned to the car, the attendant had finished filling the tank and Hobbes was carrying on an animated conversation with the teenaged pump-jockey who was busily admiring the sleek black luxury sedan they'd been driving.

Grumpily, Darien got back into the car, ignoring the braggadocio from Hobbes on the merits of the vehicle, and unfolded his newly acquired map, determined that he was not going to spend one more minute driving in circles if he could help it.

The snort of laughter in his right ear from the pump attendant made him scowl out the open window.

"Whaddaya need with a map?" the kid asked with amusement. "This baby's fully loaded! That means you've got a GPS tracker onboard. It can give you a location for anyplace in the world," was the condescending revelation.

"Hey, don't look at me, he's driving," Darien snapped irritably, wrestling with the map. "But you'll be wasting your breath," he added smugly. "You're lookin' at the guy who still hasn't figured out how to set the clock on his VCR,"

"This from Mr. 'I-can't-work-the-copy-machine'?" Hobbes retorted before turning to the attendant again. "You know where in this heap the GPS is?" he asked curiously.

"Not too many places they can hide the sucker," was the cocky reply.

It took a bare five minutes for the attendant to locate the display, activate it, and feed in the address of the motel they'd been searching for fruitlessly for 45 minutes. "Cool, it's about three blocks away," the kid informed them as the three inch display screen glowed with a simplified map. Helpfully, the attendant triggered the voice recognition feature and climbed out of the car, waving Hobbes into the driver's seat. "There you go, pal, it'll talk you in," he announced happily.

Hobbes handed off a five dollar bill through the window and started the engine. "I can too program my VCR," he said sulkily as he whipped out into traffic at high speed, squashing Darien up against the door of the car.

 

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"Bobby. Bobby Hobbes. Damn, it's been a long time," Charlie Steinman said wistfully as he pounded his smaller cousin on the back forcefully. "What happened to the hair, man?" he asked, running a fond hand over the top of Bobby's head.

Hobbes grinned, poking Charlie in the sizable gut. "What happened to the 32 inch waist?" he rebutted. "Man, you're a sight for sore eyes, my friend. You've got the whole family in an uproar with this vanishing act of yours," he continued. "Beck even called me to try and bring me in."

Charlie snorted at that particular revelation. "Man, I'm sorry they dragged you into this, Bobby. It's my mess, and I gotta find my own way out of it," Steinman shook his head ruefully. "So who's your friend?" he asked, eyeing Darien, who stood towering at Hobbes' back.

"Charlie Steinman, meet my partner, Darien Fawkes. You can blame him for my bein' here. He's got sort of a thing about helpin' out family," Hobbes performed the introductions. "Fawkes, this is Charlie," he added, somewhat needlessly, from Fawkes' standpoint.

Darien reached past Hobbes to shake Charlie's hand. "Nice to finally meet you," he said, gently prodding Bobby further into the threadbare but functional motel room so he could close the door behind them.

"So how about telling me what's going on, huh?" Bobby requested, taking Charlie's arm and steering him to the small dinette table that bordered the kitchenette.

"It's a long story," Charlie managed a depressed sigh as he plopped into one of the chairs, resting his elbows on the table as he glanced from Hobbes to Fawkes and back again. "Can I getcha some coffee, or something?" he offered, belatedly.

"I'll scrounge it up," Darien volunteered, and began rooting through the limited cupboard space until he located the coffee, the filters and the coffeemaker. He set things up to brew, then dropped into the third chair at the table, listening to the conversation between the two cousins.

"Deb sorta surprised me," Bobby was admitting. "She was a wreck when I stopped by your place to talk to her."

Charlie raised his head with a jerk. "She was?" he asked tentatively.

Hobbes frowned. "What's goin' on between the two of you? I mean, I never did get what you saw in her, but she was a basket case. Hadn't slept in what looked like days, her eyes all puffy from cryin'; she was a mess."

Charlie looked to Darien for corroboration, and Fawkes nodded. "She's worried sick about you. Told us this whole thing was her fault," he told Steinman.

The beatific smile that illuminated Charlie's face could have powered one of the Casinos on the boardwalk with its brilliance. "She's worried?"

Puzzled, Fawkes and Hobbes exchanged looks. "Worried sick." Hobbes repeated.

"God, maybe something good'll come outta this whole disaster," Charlie sighed, then his gaze sharpened. "You think she loves me?" he demanded of Bobby, who blinked, confused.

"What, I look like Ann Landers?" Hobbes asked rhetorically. "Yeah, she loves you, you mook! She spent almost two hours telling us all she wants is another chance with you. That she's sorry she pushed you into whatever mess you're stuck in, " he went on, then eyed his cousin sharply. "And just what kinda crap are you tracking around on your shoes, pal?"

Steinman sighed again, the smile dimming to a sad frown. "About three years ago, my company got into a little bit of trouble, and Deb… Well, she was talkin' like she was gonna walk out if things didn't turn around, financially, I mean. It wasn't something I could fix, you know? I mean, if there's a building slow-down, there's a slow-down. No work means no money, means no county club dues, no spending sprees on Fifth Avenue… nada. Zip. She freaked out on me, big time. Said with everything she had to put up with, me bein' gone for days at a time, all over the state on jobs, the least she wanted was to be able to live the high life…."

Hobbes shook his head ruefully. "Well, from the sound of it, she's had a chance to rethink things a little. That may be the woman you married, but it ain't the one who's waiting for you back home. So what the heck are you doin' sitting here with us?" Bobby urged.

Charlie sighed heavily again. "I go home, and they'll go after her, too," he whispered.

"Nah, that ain't the way it works with the Mob," Bobby disagreed. "They don't go after your family, they go after you."

"You don't know Mike D'Amato, Bobby. He's the new wave. A waterfront gangster who looks all shiny and legit, cuz he's been rigging every election in Atlantic City since the City Council stopped appointing the Mayor. I… Hell. I went to him when Deb blew her cool, and he brought me in on a casino deal. Man. The work paid like you can't even believe. And then the bill came due. Turns out, he was supplying all the cable, all the wire, every foot of it substandard. And it was my ass on the line if the inspectors caught on. You know what the fines for that kinda thing are? If I could even avoid an indictment?" Steinman shook his head in despair. "He had his claws in me but good. Since then, he's supplied every spool of every gauge stock I've used on every job. God, I'm so  _screwed_. And it's not just enough that he's got me buyin' his crap at twice the going rate, now he wants to come in as a full partner, so he can use my company to launder his damn money!" The beleaguered businessman lowered his head into his hands, fingers threaded through the same dark,wavy locks as those remaining on Hobbes' head.

Darien frowned, forehead creased in thought. "What's your company worth? Fair market?" he asked abruptly, expression going intent.

His partner fixed dark eyes on him, his own expression sharpening. "What you got in mind, Fawkesy?" he prodded.

"Why?" Steinman asked, simultaneously, perplexed.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but this  _is_  Atlantic City, right?" Darien asked sarcastically, looking from one to the other of them.

"Yeah, so?" Bobby asked, still unenlightened.

" _So_ , how 'bout we scam the scammers?" Darien proposed with a smirk.

Hobbes frowned. "You mean, like we did down in Mexico, at Arnaud's casino?" he asked.

"Hey, it worked on one mother, it'll work on another," Darien grinned at his accidental rhyme.

"What's he talking about?" Charlie asked his cousin, not having followed the last part of the conversation at all.

"A way to get you a little of your own back, maybe. Set you and Deb up fresh, someplace new," Hobbes answered his cousin without taking his eyes off his partner. "Whatcha thinkin', Fawkes?" he insisted.

"How many casinos is this D'Amato guy into?" Darien inquired of Steinman, ignoring his partner for the moment. Well-honed larcenous reflexes were being brought into play, but like any long unused muscle, it would need a warm up and a little light exercise before he could expect to do any heavy lifting. The number of times he'd burgled something in the last two and a half years significantly outnumbered the number of cons he'd planned and run. Fortunately, in this particular case, beating the house was going to be considerably easier than he was used to, given his newly acquired skills courtesy of the government.

Charlie blew out a breath through pursed lips. "He owns two, outright, and has his fingers in at least three others that I know about."

"We should be able to make that work," Darien said. "But it'd be better if we can go in as high rollers," he mused aloud, thinking through the strategies that would net them the highest return with the least amount of effort. Or risk.

Darien's phone chose that moment to ring, interrupting his train of thought. "'Scuse me," he said and got up, wandering across the room as he answered. "Hiya, Eberts, whatcha got?"

"Hello, Darien. I'm sorry, but not a great deal. The dental records confirmed that it was not Mr. Steinman's body at any of the three morgue locations, but beyond that, I have no idea of his whereabouts. I'm sorry," was the apologetic reply from the former CPA.

"Oh, uh, oops," Darien grimaced. "Sorry, man, I kinda forgot to let you know we've tracked him down," he confessed.

"Darien. I was under the impression there was some urgency in this matter. That Mr. Steinman's life was at stake," came the disappointed if carefully worded scolding. "You should have let me know the instant you discovered his location!" The sigh spoke volumes. "I suppose this means the result of my search of the various witness protection databases is moot?"

"Uhm, yeah… kinda," Darien admitted contritely, then reconsidered. "Hey, Eberts? What's it take for someone to get processed through the witness protection program?" he asked, curiously.

"Witness protection is generally reserved for those people who have both rendered significant aid in the successful prosecution of criminal elements and have risked their life and safety in so doing," Eberts informed Fawkes. "Why?" he wanted to know.

"Hold that thought, ok? It may end up being important," Darien deferred a direct answer. "I got another question for you, though. You're still looking into Mob activity in Jersey, right?"

"Yes," Eberts agreed cautiously.

"The name Mike D'Amato come up anywhere?" Darien asked hopefully.

"Oh, dear," was the answer to this question. "Michael D'Amato is currently the subject of a half-dozen ongoing federal investigations ranging from racketeering to fraud. He is at the top of the FBI's list of targeted mobsters. The rumors surrounding his business dealings are most unsavory."

"Tell me about it," Darien agreed, thinking hard. "If we could give the Feds conclusive proof that D'Amato's been stringing substandard wire all over the boardwalk, you think we could get protection for Bobby's cousin?" he asked quietly with a glance across the motel room at the chatting cousins.

"Darien, the whole point of sending you to New York was to prevent Robert's entanglement in this situation," Eberts reminded, his anxious response beginning to edge into the frantic. "What is Mr. Steinman's part in all this?"

"Charlie Steinman is just a guy who loves his wife, Eberts. I don't know what that's like. Do you?" Darien asked with a certain amount of wishful thinking.

"No, I'm afraid I don't," came the equally poignant answer. "Very well. What do you need from me?"

"You're alright, you know that?" Darien smiled.

"Thank you, Darien," Eberts' satisfaction was audible. "I try."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"So what's the plan, Einstein?" Bobby asked as he handed Darien his wallet.

"First things first, Hobbesy," Darien grinned. "Consider this one way to get some decent equipment to work with."

"Hey, I'm up for that, my friend," Hobbes laughed. "Just as long as I get reimbursed," he amended, after a second's thought. "So how'd you find out about this place?" he asked, eyeing the unpromising storefront they were parked across the street from.

"Professional secret," Darien informed him enigmatically.

"Uh-huh," Hobbes cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "This one of those petty criminal things?" he wanted to know.

"Hey, you have your secrets, I have mine," Darien brushed off the suspicions his partner left mostly unvoiced and got out of the car. "Drive around the block, will ya? We don't want to be payin' more than we have too," he suggested.

"That we don't, pal," Hobbes agreed and started up the car, pulling away as Darien crossed the street with his long-legged lope.

Fawkes rapped sharply on the glass of the locked door, then stood back to allow the inevitable security camera inside a good look as he finger combed his spiky locks, admiring the overall look in the reflection in the glass while he waited for the doorkeeper to admit him.

Sure enough, seconds later, the door cracked open and one blue eye peered at him through the gap, squinting in the glare of the afternoon sunshine. "Who're you?" came the short inquiry.

"What is this, the X-Files? No, lemme guess, you're one of the Lone Gunmen, right?" he asked flippantly. "Look, I'm just a guy with some cash burning a hole in my pocket, who wants a few toys to play with. I heard you were the best in town. So whaddya say, pal? Wanna do the sales pitch? Razzle-dazzle me?"

The door shut again, long enough to make him worried, wondering if his contact at Open Sesame Enterprises back in San Diego had gotten the address wrong, then opened widely enough to allow him entrance. He stepped into an electronics buff's vision of paradise. It took him the better part of half an hour to make his selections, then he used Hobbes' credit card to pay for his purchases, careful to obtain receipts for everything in the smallish shopping bag he confidently took possession of.

When he returned to the sidewalk to await Hobbes' next drive-by, he was carrying over a thousand dollars worth of the latest, most miniaturized communications equipment on the general consumer market. Bobby pulled up in the Infinity, pausing barely long enough to allow Darien inside, and drove off with a small squeal of rubber.

"Whoa, there, Starsky, this was a legit deal! We're not gonna be doin' any high speed chases, here, 'kay?" Fawkes said, grabbing the handhold over the passenger side door window as Bobby took a corner at considerably higher speeds than the posted limit.

"Better safe than sorry, buddy, trust me." Hobbes said, taking the next corner at the same speed before slowing the expensive vehicle to a sedate 35 miles per hour. "So, now what?" he asked, sparing a rapid look at his partner.

"Now we do a dry run," he grinned at Hobbes. "Was Charlie ok with the 'shoom' thing?"

"Let's just say he thinks I'm due for a section eight. I think he's gonna need a demo. And a tranquilizer," Hobbes shrugged as he steered a course back to the motel where Charlie Steinman awaited their return.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien spread his purchases out on the queen-sized bed with its obnoxious orange bedspread, sorting through the gadgets with rapid professionalism. Behind him, the cousins stood watching, Charlie explaining to Hobbes that his office manager, the termagant Mrs. Francis, was literally a lifesaver.

"Yeah, well maybe so," Bobby conceded, "but she's a menace."

Charlie chuckled. "Why do you think I hired her?" he asked. "If it hadn't been for her, D'Amato probably wouldn't have waited as long as he did to try a take-over bid. That woman scares even him."

"Well, she's loyal, I'll give her that, but she doesn't think much of your choice in ladies," Hobbes told him.

"Whaddaya mean?" Steinman inquired.

"Let's just say she has a low opinion of Deb, and the one she has of Annabelle isn't much higher. At least she let Anna know you were alive, though, and set things up so you could keep in touch. How come you didn't call Deb?"

Charlie shuffled his feet, embarrassment plain on his face. "Natalie tell you about Annie?" he asked sheepishly.

"No, actually, your wife did," Darien interrupted, handing each of them a small flesh-colored button the size of a fingernail.

The blush faded to a pasty white. " _Deb_  told you?" he asked incredulously.

Hobbes cocked an eyebrow. "I take it that means you didn't know she knew?" he observed.

"God. What a mess." Steinman ran the fingers of both hands through his hair distractedly.

"Uh, yeah, I'd say so," Darien agreed. "So let's try and clean it up a little, huh? Bobby told you how this is gonna work, right?" he continued, sounding like an instructor.

"Well, yeah," Charlie glanced sideways at Hobbes with skepticism. "According to him, the drill is that he and I go in as high rollers, you as the bodyguard or something, and we crash a few high stakes games. It's the, uhm, invisible thing I'm havin' a little trouble with," he admitted.

"Trust me, you aren't alone there," Darien assured him. "Those," he pointed to the little devices he'd handed them, "are miniature receivers. They go in your ears. These," he tossed each of them a fake diamond lapel pin, "are transmitters. They're sensitive enough to pick up every word you say, as well as anything anyone within ten feet of you says. Tonight, we're gonna go hang out at a few casinos and try 'em out, get you two used to filtering out the white noise. It's how I'm gonna be stacking the decks in your favor. Literally."

"I don't get why we need these," Charlie said, eyeing each of the small devices in his palm.

"Put 'em on, and I'll demonstrate," Darien said, the tone a near-command.

Hobbes, who had already donned his, assisted his cousin, no one commenting on the ridiculousness of a faux diamond lapel pin affixed to the grungy t-shirt Steinman wore.

"Ready?" Darien asked as he tucked his own receiver in his ear and looked from one to the other of his coconspirators.

"Do it," Hobbes ordered.

Darien willed the Quicksilver into place, feeling the chill as it flowed over him, his vision graying to the smeary monochrome associated with invisibility. Even in silver-vision, he could see Charlie Steinman go pale and sway slightly, jaw dropping in disbelief.

"Whoa," Steinman breathed as he stuck a hand out in front of him, waving it through the space Darien had occupied a second earlier.

Fawkes stepped back out of range, then sidled around behind Steinman and laid an icy hand on the beefy shoulder.

Charlie jumped as if electrocuted, spinning around. "Holy Sh…" he gasped, the last part of the curse cut off as Fawkes materialized in front of him, the Quicksilver flaking away like a bad case of dandruff. "Man. Man-o-man." He turned to stare at Hobbes who was having a hard time suppressing the grin curving his mouth. "I thought you were as crazy as everyone says, there, Bobby," was Charlie's strangled-sounding apology.

Hobbes shrugged nonchalantly. "Yeah,, I get that a lot," he agreed. "Kinda puts a new spin on having an invisible friend, though," he added with a fond smirk at Fawkes.

Charlie returned his gaze to Fawkes, still wide-eyed. "How'd you  _do_  that?" he asked Darien.

"Special effects," Darien replied enigmatically.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien hit the speed dial on his cell phone for Eberts' desk back in San Diego. The stalwart bureaucrat answered on the second ring, despite the fact that it was past six p.m. in California. "Hi, it's me," he greeted Eberts.

"So I assumed," Eberts remarked dryly. "What can I do for you, now?" he asked.

Fawkes leaned back in the vinyl dinette chair, resting his feet on the battered '60s era coffee table that served as the hub of the sitting area in Charlie's motel room. He was tired, hungry, but fairly satisfied with the results of the low-key practice run they'd made at the casinos. Charlie was fortunately a quick study, and had adjusted well to the novelty and sensory confusion of the transmitter and receiver he wore. It had only taken an hour or so before he became reasonably adept at excluding everything but what he needed to hear, and he no longer jumped every time an invisible Darien passed nearby. "Eberts, we have a plan," he informed the executive assistant.

"I see," Eberts answered, archly, "Let me take a wild guess. You need my help."

Fawkes grinned. "It's nice to be needed, isn't it?" he commented, amused.

The small but dignified snort on the other end of the line told him that Eberts was willing to go along, for the moment.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The next evening, their preparations made, and resplendent in their rented finery, Hobbes, Fawkes and Charlie Steinman rolled up to the grand motor entrance of their first target casino in their black Infinity and turned the vehicle over to the valet. Darien, in the role of bodyguard for the two supposed high rollers, followed on their heels, leaving his sunglasses on and peering conspicuously around the casino lobby, cutting off those who threatened to pass too close to his principles. The stir their passage made was minimal in this playground for the rich and famous, but tourists and employees were left in no doubt that 'someone' had arrived. A hospitality hostess, alerted by the valet service, no doubt, intercepted them halfway through the lobby and offered her services, which Hobbes genteelly accepted, allowing her to lead the way to the high stakes games in the invitation-only area of the casino.

Hotel security was waiting for them and they were patted down discretely, revealing Bobby's (empty) Colt in Darien's waist holster, Hobbes having handed it to him to lend verisimilitude to his part. Since Darien refused to surrender the weapon, he was, as expected, consigned to standing guard duty outside. Hobbes and his cousin sailed through the doors, Hobbes playing the part of the tycoon to the hilt as he told Darien not to move.

Darien promised himself he'd make his partner pay for the petty annoyances Hobbes was gleefully heaping on his erstwhile 'employee', as Fawkes took a stance halfway between the doorway and the elevator, feet spread, hands behind his back in standard parade rest, sunglasses still on, allowing him to watch what was going on around him without being obvious about it. When the third or fourth tuxedo-clad waitress had passed him, bearing drinks and tempting looking tidbits, he stopped one and asked where the nearest restroom was. At the first lull in traffic, he headed for it, making sure to give the cameras a good view of him, then Quicksilvered, returned to the game room and joined his companions inside with a quietly cheerful hail across the receivers in their ears.

He was impressed at Eberts' efficiency. The Official's assistant had played his part as Hobbes' secretary to perfection, and their masquerade as notables had gone without a hitch. He spotted Hobbes at the craps table, and Charlie at the roulette wheel, and circled the room, careful to avoid passing too close to patrons and revealing himself by virtue of the chill he exuded when Quicksilvered.

He whispered in Charlie's ear as he passed and was impressed that the man barely twitched a muscle. He spent fifteen minutes tweaking the roulette ball on alternating spins so that it landed where Charlie had placed his bets. They had mapped out a strategy that would make it far harder for casino security to detect the interference than it would have been for the much lower-tech Mexican casino Darien and his Agency cohorts had fleeced of a sizable sum a year before. And here he was, once again, playing the peon to his companions' patrón. Only this time, it was his idea. The resentment that had built all through that first experience had been a long time fading, but this time, the adrenaline rush of managing a successful con buoyed his spirits. Finishing monkey-wrenching his last slated spin of the wheel, he softly warned Charlie to step down his bets as he headed for the craps table to assist Hobbes.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Bobby was nursing his champagne without seeming to, keeping his bets small for the most part until Fawkes could tip the odds in his favor. He felt the faint chill as Darien passed him, heading for the head of the table where he could access the dice as they tumbled across the felt of the craps table.

"Been waitin' for you, Obi Wan," Hobbes muttered, the sensitive mic in the lapel pin picking up the comment and transmitting it to Fawkes.

"I thought I was Luke Skywalker," Darien answered softly via the receiver in Hobbes' ear, and Bobby stifled a snort of laughter.

"In this, my friend, you are the master," Hobbes conceded magnanimously, lips hardly moving, voice nearly soundless.

There was a Darth-Vader-like series of noisy breaths before Darien tossed a return quote back at him. "The circle is now complete… I was but the learner, now  _I_  am the master," Fawkes did a fair imitation of James Earl Jones' sibilant speech, as Vader, just prior to Ben Kenobi's demise.

It was a struggle for Hobbes to keep a straight face, and the sub vocal reprimand he managed lost its sting filtered through amusement. "Stop making me laugh. I'm gonna choke on my champagne," he warned softly, taking a pair of dice, placing his bet and shaking the plastic cubes in his loose fist, then tossing them towards the far end of the craps table.

"Don't worry, Hobbesy, I'm here to give you an invisible Heimlich," Darien quipped, and Hobbes watched as his thrown dice spilled artfully face up to display the numbers he'd bet on. He gloated appropriately, and the next twenty minutes were more of the same, other patrons catching wind of a player on a lucky streak and gathering round in the hopes that the luck would rub off.

With a certain regret, he scaled back his betting as Fawkes told him it was Charlie's turn for an assist, relishing the thrill that came with winning. He grinned to himself as the crowd drifted towards the suddenly hot roulette table where his cousin was enjoying a second lucky streak, and sipped at his champagne. To his mind, the only thing missing was Claire, in an evening gown, at his side to make the experience an unqualified success.

By the time they left the first casino, they were three quarters of a million richer. They had had the casino's cashiers do a wire transfer into the account Eberts had set up for that purpose, an offshore account that the Agency would collect interest on until such time as the balance was relinquished to Charlie and Deborah Steinman. It was that little twist that had persuaded Eberts to lend his particular stamp of approval to their unconventional operation.

Three more casinos were likewise visited, and Hobbes and Fawkes were well pleased with their success by the time they dragged themselves wearily back to the downtrodden motel that had become their temporary headquarters. Until Charlie told them ruefully that the price tag on his business was nearly double the 4.5 million they'd managed to net.

"Look, I'm sorry, fellas," Steinman apologized. "It's enough. It'll have to be. Deb's just gonna have to understand that things've changed…" he trailed off, the worried and hang-dog expression on his face making the two agents exchange looks.

Hobbes massaged his chin thoughtfully. "Well, the only way we're gonna double our money without blowing our operation is if we take it up a notch," he mused.

"Huh?" Darien queried.

"I'm talkin' poker, Fawkes. High-stakes, ten thou minimums, whatever passes for the top echelon around here."

"Uh, Hobbes, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but I'm not gonna be much use in a card game," he pointed out. "It's gotta be movin' for me to mess with it so's that no one can tell." Darien's eyes narrowed as he watched the wheels going round in his partner's head, wondering what Hobbes had up his sleeve.

"You got a deck of cards around here, anywhere?" Bobby asked his cousin.

Charlie frowned, thinking about it, then proceeded to rummage through the motel's nightstand drawers "I thought I saw these lying around," he announced triumphantly when he'd located a pack, still in its cellophane wrapper.

Hobbes held out a hand and Charlie tossed the pack to him. Bobby then proceeded to unwrap them, open the pack, and speed-shuffle the pasteboard with all the aplomb of a professional dealer. Darien gaped for a second, then wondered why he was surprised. His partner was a man of many and varied skills. This was merely one more in a long succession. Bobby dealt three hands onto the dinette table and beckoned them to take a seat.

Still in their eveningwear, they settled around the cheap chrome and formica table, the surroundings a far cry from those they'd spent the rest of the evening in.

"Ok," Hobbes began, nudging a hand towards each of them. "Either of you two know anything about poker?"

As it turned out, fortunately, all of them were conversant with the basic rules and principles, having played enough backroom games that they could hold their own. Hobbes, however, was clearly a stellar player. He beat them easily, the three rounds they played, then nodded to himself and leaned back in his vinyl-upholstered chair to eye Darien contemplatively.

"How good is your control, Gland-boy?" he asked at last.

"What do you mean?" Fawkes responded cautiously.

"I  _mean_ , can you Quicksilver a single card in a hand, remove it, and replace it with one you've been keepin' up your invisible sleeve?" Bobby inquired with a trace of sarcasm.

Darien's eyebrows raised as he considered this. "Dunno till I try," he answered gamely, and reached into the center of the table to pick up the deck, and began sorting it by suits, putting the cards back in numerical order, save for the ones that had constituted their hands from the game they'd just finished. When he was done, he Quicksilvered the cards he held and put them in his suit coat pocket. "Ok, ready," he told his partner, who picked up and fanned his winning hand, eyeing Fawkes expectantly.

Darien walked around the table and leaned past Hobbes' shoulder to touch an invisible forefinger to the ace of hearts in the center of the hand. The card disappeared. Unfortunately, so did the edges of the ones on either side. "Crap," he muttered, as Hobbes shook the Quicksilver off the cards and glanced up at him.

"Try again, hotshot," Hobbes encouraged, loosening his grip on the cards slightly so that a minute amount of airspace remained between them.

Obediently, Darien tried again, concentrating with every tired brain cell he had. Once again, he touched the card, and once again, it vanished. This time, slightly less of the surrounding cards did, and he smiled as Hobbes nodded his approval.

"Again, Houdini," Hobbes urged.

Again, and then again, and for the next half hour, Bobby drilled Darien on selectively isolating and Quicksilvering individual cards in the hand he held. When he finally managed a perfect disappearance of the jack of clubs, both of them hooted with glee, raising their free hands for their usual low-five. "Alright, now slip it out of the hand and replace it with one of the ones from your see-through deck," Hobbes instructed, returning to the part of taskmaster.

Darien groaned piteously. "Hobbes, it's two in the morning! I've been invisible pretty much non-stop since six, and I'm so hungry, my stomach is chowing down on my spinal column!" he protested, aggrieved.

Hobbes shook his head, exasperated, then turned to his cousin, who had kicked off the kidskin loafers and undone his bowtie and was sprawled on the ratty sofa with his feet on the coffee table. "Hey, Chuckie, there any places that do late night delivery around here?" he asked.

"Are you kidding? This place is open 24 hours a day, Bobby. Whatcha want; Pizza? Chinese? Thai? You name it, it's here, and it's all-night, all you can eat," Charlie grunted, leaning forward to pick up the phone book on the coffee table.

An hour later, having obtained sustenance, and managing to eat three quarters of everything they'd ordered from the local Chinese Buffet all by himself, Darien sighed, the nasty hollow feeling in his belly finally assuaged. He patted his still concave belly contentedly, leaning back and closing his eyes.

"Oh, no you don't sleeping beauty," Hobbes scolded. "Up an'at'em," he said, hauling Darien back upright by the scruff of the neck.

Fawkes groaned, glaring at his hyperactive little partner. "You're a royal pain in the -"

"You can sleep when you're dead, Fawkesy. Right now, we've got more important things to be doing. Like finding a way to take this D'Amato guy for enough to make it hurt," Bobby insisted, handing Darien the deck of cards. "Now. From the top, slick. And make it good."

Resignedly, Darien sighed pathetically and did as ordered, Quicksilvering one of the center cards and easing it out of the hand Bobby held. Then he slipped a card off the top of the invisible deck he held and gently inserted it into the hand. There was almost no tell-tale, inexplicable movement of the rest of the cards Hobbes held, and the Quicksilver from the reappearing card flaked discretely into Hobbes' lap. The two Agents exchanged looks: Darien's one that said 'you asked for it,' and Hobbes' a grin of satisfaction.

"Nice work, Fawkes. Now. Do it when you're Quicksilvered," Bobby commanded.

"Hobbes, I don't get some sleep and we'll all be very, very sorry," Darien growled menacingly.

"Wimp," was Bobby's assessment of this threat. "Just do it, like the commercial says, alright? And stop whinin' about it."

"I swear, Bobby, when we get home, I'm gonna short-sheet your bed, put itching powder in your shorts, and anything else I can think of," Darien warned as he did as he'd been told and vanished with a small sound like silk and sleigh bells across an old-fashioned washboard.

"You and what army," was Bobby's complacent reply as he positioned himself naturally at the table, holding his hand as if he were embroiled in an actual game. He held the cards more closely, less of each one showing, as if to shield his cards from the rest of the imaginary players. "Hit it, Maestro," he said.

Darien obliged, performing the switch with speed and near perfection.

"Nice," Bobby approved. "Now. How about giving me a card that I can actually use, huh?" he teased.

"I would, but it's hard to do when I can't see the damned things," a still invisible Darien reminded him sarcastically.

"Crap," Hobbes scowled.

"Watch out there, Bobby, you'll hurt something, thinking that hard."

"Ha, ha, ha, smartass,' Hobbes mocked, obviously wracking his brain for a solution to this dilemma.

Darien reappeared, slouched in the chair opposite Hobbes, feeling bedraggled and tired in spite of the well-cut Armani suit he still wore. "Are we done yet?" he asked after an extended silence.

"NO," Bobby snapped shortly, then straightened in his chair, the scowl lifting like the fog on a summer's day in San Diego. "You don't need to see the cards if you know what you're holding," he told Darien, who merely blinked back at him sleepily. Annoyed, Bobby snapped his fingers. "Hand 'em over, Fawkes," he said, taking the deck of cards from Darien and fanning them quickly. "You ever counted cards?" he asked his weary partner.

"Huh?" Darien grunted.

"Wake up, Fawkes. Let's say you have a nice, new deck that the dealer hasn't even unwrapped yet. How's it come out of the box?" he coached.

"By suit, in order," Darien yawned.

"Exactly, my friend. Exactly!" was Hobbes triumphant agreement.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They arrived at the last of their target casinos at nine p.m. the following evening, D'Amato's flagship establishment, the same one that Charlie had worked on three years earlier. As before, Eberts' research into D'Amato's habits had paved the way, and the three, once again in their assumed roles of tycoons and bodyguard, made their way into the inner sanctums as invited guest of the mobster's' private high-stakes poker game. As before, Darien, as bodyguard, was left outside. He positioned himself in the small gap between surveillance cameras and when the coast cleared, headed for the restroom to Quicksilver himself.

He made his way into the large parlor-style room, lined with magnificent artwork that the thief in him was itching to lay hands on. The Klimt nudes, the Chinese bronzes, and the drawings that looked suspiciously like Picasso originals made his mouth water. The players in the evening's high-stakes tournament were a group of perhaps eight men and one woman, standing around in front of the bar with drinks and cigars, chatting amiably amongst themselves in an effort to size each other up before the game began.

He kept half an eye on Hobbes and Charlie, where they mingled with the group, Steinman playing it much cooler than Darien had expected. Maybe the secret agent stuff ran in families, he speculated. He made his way to the table, where the dealer was setting up, opening packs of casino-logo-emblazoned cards and expertly shuffling each pack before loading them into the holder that, at a guess, could contain up to seven packs of cards at a time. It was standard casino insurance against casual card-counting or other minor forms of fraud, and happily, it worked in his favor. He watched for several seconds to see which order the cards came out of their packets in, and how many of them there were, and which superfluous ones were removed. The non-suit cards were the last three in each deck, and he carefully palmed one of the unopened decks off the stack of 10 or so on the table, tucking it into his pocket so he could find an unobtrusive corner somewhere to unwrap it without the crackling cellophane giving away his presence.

Bobby and Charlie were once more outfitted with their miniature transmitters and receivers, and Darien kept up a soft running commentary on his location and his readiness, as well as scoping out the best places for the cousins to sit so that he would have enough room to maneuver cards in and out of their hand. Since the table was oval in shape, he calculated that the two would have the most elbowroom if they sat at the narrow ends of the oval, at opposite ends of the table.

Obediently, Hobbes and Charlie positioned themselves to acquire those choice seats, and when the dealer cleared her throat and announced that all was in readiness, they reached their objectives with a minimum of fuss, nothing to give away the calculated nature of their choice of chairs.

The game began with a round of five card stud, the players carefully feeling each other out, looking for telltale expressions, mannerisms, anything that would tell them what sort of hand their opponents held. Darien concentrated primarily on reporting back to his cohorts what cards the various players were holding, who was bluffing, and for what stakes.

Bobby and Charlie played the first four hands without availing themselves of Darien's newest trick, trying, along with the rest of the players, to get a feel for the competition, each of them winning a hand and a tidy sum in the process. As the fifth hand was dealt, a slight commotion at the door drew everyone's attention.

Two new players, engrossed in a raucous conversation, entered the room chatting animatedly. It was only because Darien happened to be looking past Charlie toward the door that he noticed Steinman's sudden pallor and the mist of sweat that broke out on his upper lip. "Uh-oh," he whispered, alerting Hobbes, who had turned in his chair to catch sight of the new arrivals, that something was wrong. "What's up, Charlie?" Darien asked, worried.

"That's Mike D'Amato and his right-hand man," Charlie managed to spit out, voice a bare whisper.

"Oh, crap," Darien swore. "He knows you, right? By sight, I mean?"

"Oh, yeah," was the dismayed agreement. "What the hell do we do now?" Steinman asked as D'Amato and his companion finished their conversation and approached the table, still grinning.

"Bluff," Hobbes said firmly through the little transmitter. "Get a grip, Charlie. He can't exactly put a bullet in you here, in public, right? Besides. You've got a Hobbes with you. We run with the Genoveses, remember?"

Darien gulped. The casual admission made the Quicksilver run cold through his blood. Every criminal in the country knew the Genovese family was quite possibly the most powerful of the mafia families in New York, if not the nation, and for Hobbes to bluntly announce a family association was more than a little mind-bending.

"Just make the introductions, if he asks, ok?" Hobbes was continuing, though it was hard for Fawkes to hear him over the roaring of his pulse. He almost wished there were bullets in Bobby's Colt, where it snuggled coldly at the small of his back.

D'Amato sauntered up to the table, smiling a host's smile as his sharp-eyed gaze traveled over the players around the mahogany oval. Darien was close enough to see those eyes harden as they fell on Charlie, and he swallowed again, mouth suddenly dry. D'Amato finished his amiable self-introduction and was busily glad-handing the guests at his table, chatting with each of them, every inch the consummate and confident casino owner.

When he got to Charlie, though, the good-natured conversation became edged. "So, Charlie," D'Amato clapped a firm hand down on Steinman's shoulder, " it's been a long time. You don't call, you don't write, then outta the blue, you show up here?" He smiled down at Charlie widely and with all the warmth of a cobra. "I gotta say, I was starting to worry about you," D'Amato slapped Steinman on the shoulder once again in apparent bonhomie. Though on the surface the brief words seemed polite, the dangerous undercurrent to them was unmistakable. Darien was only too aware of the unspoken threat inherent in nearly everything the mobster said as he continued to make small talk with a visibly nervous Charlie. In a brief few words, while on the surface all politeness, D'Amato had, more or less, informed Steinman that his disappearance was  _not_  appreciated. That he'd had been the object of an unsuccessful search by the mobster, and that he had made a very poor choice by having the temerity to show his face at the private game of the very man he'd offended.

Fawkes braced himself as D'Amato got to Hobbes, introducing himself, and listening politely as Bobby did the same.

"Always a pleasure to welcome a new face to this little game," the mobster greeted Bobby, shaking the hand Hobbes offered. "Usually, I know everyone here," was the additional, double-edged comment.

Hobbes shrugged, reaching for his cut crystal tumbler of scotch and taking a casual sip before answering. "Chuckie asked if I'd be interested in a friendly game since I was in town, so I said why not," Hobbes responded.

Fawkes could see the tough-guy persona drop over Bobby's shoulders like a mantle of power. It was eerie to watch his partner change personalities like a chameleon, and he kept a sharp eye on him as he found a spot out of the way of casual traffic to observe until the game started again.

"Ah, so you came with Charlie," D'Amato said, enlightened, interest and suspicions piqued. "You known each other long?" he asked casually.

Hobbes shrugged again. "All my life, pretty much. We're cousins. My mother's side. Rita Hobbes, after she married my dad," Bobby filled in a little of the family lineage, and Darien watched the small frown between D'Amato's eyes deepen.

"Hobbes.  _Hobbes_ … Tell, me, why is that name ringing a bell?" D'Amato asked, curiosity well and truly aroused.

"Dunno," Bobby dissembled comfortably. "Maybe you've done some business with my family?" he suggested, eyes going grim.

"Besides Charlie, you mean?" D'Amato scoffed. "I doubt it," he added. "But you never know, I guess," he continued, fishing for more information. "Where's your family from, Jersey?"

"Brooklyn," Hobbes corrected the guess. "Heavy into the garment industry, not to mention diamonds, trucking, things like that," he added.

The conversation was fascinating to watch from Darien's perspective, because though the words themselves were straight forward, the information they contained was layered and detailed in ways that would only hold meaning for the two participants. Unless Darien was very much mistaken, Hobbes had just told D'Amato that there were connections in the Hobbes family that the mobster would do well to respect. The New York families were still vastly superior to the Jersey Mob in both power and numbers, and the friction between the two groups was ongoing and long term. Many of the New York families were also heavily invested in the most lucrative of the Jersey rackets, and Darien wondered if D'Amato had deep-pocketed investors from across the river.

"Ah," D'Amato grunted, considering this as he made some polite comment and moved on around the table.

The game started again, chairs being added to seat the two new arrivals.

Charlie had calmed down somewhat as D'Amato had gone on ignoring him for the most part, and with Darien's inside scoop on who held what cards, the cousins won the three games with the richest pots, spurring other players into outrageous bets with their bluffs, calls and raises.

By the time they got to the sixth round after D'Amato's arrival, they had well over two million apiece in chips piled in front of them.

D'Amato, consuming 40-year-old single malt scotch like it was water, began a concerted effort to capture the next pot, betting as heavily as he was drinking. Darien had yet to try his new Quicksilver trick, since the cousins had stuck to placing bets based on the other players' cards. It was far less risky, and he couldn't say he was sorry, especially not with the target of their con in place at the table. As it was, D'Amato was clearly suspicious, the cousins simply too lucky too often for it to fall within the odds of likelihood.

The bets escalated in size as D'Amato saw every raise that Charlie or Hobbes made, no matter how high, and frequently doubled them. One by one the rest of the players dropped out as it became clear a grudge match was in session, and the hand took on some of the atmosphere of gladiatorial games, the ousted players in the part of the Roman citizenry with a taste for blood. From the number of them rooting for the cousins, it seemed that D'Amato was known for winning more than his share of the pots under normal circumstances.

The tension in the room was rising at the same rate as the stakes, and even Hobbes was beginning to break a sweat as the game resolved into a threeway contest between himself, Charlie and D'Amato. Everything they'd made up to that point was riding on the outcome of this last round, and the stress was starting to show. He even went so far as to unbutton his tuxedo jacket to cool himself off. Darien was kept hopping reporting on who held what.

"Ok, guys," he informed the cousins, "The fat cat is holding two pair, aces and threes. You've only got one more draw to do this," he warned them, peering over each of their shoulders in turn, taking in their hands; dogs, both of them. Charlie was also holding two pair, but his highest was only eights. Hobbes' hand was, if anything, worse. He held a completely random mix of cards, the highest being a ten of clubs, and Darien could see the knots in his jaw as his partner brooded over the hand. It was D'Amato's draw, and Darien, standing behind him, cursed. "Crap. He pulled an ace, man, Full house, aces high. Whaddya want me to do, Hobbes?" he asked for guidance, watching as sweat trickled from Charlie's temples.

In the manner of all predators, D'Amato could read the emotional temperature of the room, and as his opponents became more stressed, he relaxed, the good nature of his arrival reasserting itself. "See it, raise it," he announced confidently, dropping another three million on the small mountain of chips that centered the table.

"Raise 'im, Charlie," Hobbes encouraged across the table, the calm in his voice false, but convincing enough that D'Amato spared a glance at him.

"Oh, yeah, please, do, Charlie," the mobster agreed.

"Hobbes, what the hell are you doing?" Darien asked in a frantic whisper.

"Get ready to make a switch, Fawkes. Royal Flush, clubs. I'll use my ten to cover it," he said grimly.

Heart pounding in his throat, Darien eased the pack of cards out of his jacket pocket, starting to count out the cards. In these decks, the clubs were the third suit in from the front, and he had folded the 2 of hearts, the first card, so he'd be able to tell by feel which direction the pack faced. Not for the first time, he cursed the fact that anything he held while Quicksilvered was as invisible to him as it was to everyone else. He counted through two sets of thirteen, removing the cards from the deck and putting them back in his pocket, tucking the card he hoped was the ace of clubs into his sleeve, then counting nine more cards, dropping them into his pocket, then separating what he devoutly prayed were the three face cards in the suit of clubs, disposing of the rest of the cards back in his pocket.

At the other end of the table, Charlie was sweating bullets but following Bobby's lead, seeing the raise and tossing in the last of his chips as well. "You'll be cleanin' me out every ole' which way," Steinman said with false joviality as the chips he'd tossed went tumbling down the side of the sizable heap.

"Yeah," D'Amato gloated. "I will, won't I?" the words held a cheerful menace that ratcheted Darien's pulse up another notch as he gathered the face cards he held and went to ease the ace out of his sleeve.

The dampness of his fingers and the slickness of the new pasteboard combined to send the card fluttering to the carpet. Thankfully, since Fawkes was standing behind Bobby, whose back was to the door, none of the rest of the players were in a position to catch the flutter as the Quicksilver flaked away when the ace hit the carpet. "Aww,  _crap_!" he swore nearly inaudibly, kneeling frantically to scoop it up, the Quicksilver flowing over it instantly.

"Hurry  _up_ , Fawkes," Hobbes' voice ghosted through the receiver in Darien's ear. Even standing as close to his partner as he was, Fawkes couldn't hear him without the little device.

"Here it comes, Hobbesy," Darien warned, leaning close over Bobby's shoulder as Hobbes collapsed his hand, wrapping the lower two thirds of the stacked cards with his fingers, the back of the ten facing the table to cover for the switch of the rest of the cards he held. Darien Quicksilvered the four remaining cards, Hobbes having left the tiniest gap between them and the ten, and then removed them from inside the protective circle of Bobby's fingers, replacing them with the four club face cards and withdrawing as if burned. He saw Hobbes' slight shiver as the coldness of Quicksilver so near his neck and ear registered.

"Don't be jumpin' the gun, pal," Hobbes said to D'Amato in response to the mobster's gloat, rapping his hand against the table to make sure the last of the Quicksilver flaked into his lap, then fanning his cards and arranging them with intense concentration. "We've still got a half mil in our little party account, which should let me see Charlie's raise," Bobby informed him.

"But it doesn't get you any further, does it?" D'Amato leaned back smugly. "So call it," he added confidently.

"Sure you don't want to extend us a line of credit?" Hobbes goaded, not looking up from arranging his cards.

"In your dreams, pal. In your dreams," D'Amato smirked. "C'mon, show 'em."

"Well, okay, If you're sure," Hobbes hesitated as he collapsed the hand again, lay it face down on the table and beckoned for a pen and paper by pantomime, then wrote the number of the account in the Caymans that held the last half million of their previous night's winnings, folded it and tucked it into the top of the mound, seeing Charlie's raise. "See it and call," he added, flipping over his hand, the ten face up, topping the pile.

D'Amato snorted. "Full house, buddy. Full house, ace over three," he said with obvious satisfaction as he spread his hand across the table with a brush of his fingers.

Bobby whistled in appreciation. "Nice.  _Very_  nice," he said, shaking his head. "But last I checked, it don't beat this," he continued, imitating the gesture D'Amato had just used, and sweeping his small stack of cards out over the table. "Royal Flush, baby," he smiled charmingly at his adversary.

The flash of incandescent rage in the mobster's eyes would probably have sent Hobbes for his gun had there not been a room full of people as witnesses, in Darien's estimation, and he breathed a small sigh of relief as D'Amato's right hand man put a restraining hand on his boss's shoulder in warning. "Nice game, Mr. Hobbes," D'Amato said instead through gritted teeth. "Care for another round?"

"Not tonight, thanks," Bobby replied calmly, reaching into the center of the table and starting to scoop the loose chips into the pile. "I have business with my sister's husband tomorrow back in New York. I think I'll just have your lovely dealer, here," he flirted with the rather worried-looking dealer outrageously, "just wire this to this account," he added, taking the paper he'd written the number on and handing it to the woman, who took it hesitantly, with a sidelong glance at her employer, whose faint nod sent her on her way.

Unutterably relieved, Darien followed her out, slipping from the room with a quiet word of his departure to his partners. He dodged his way past the dealer and sprinted for the restroom, where he finally let the Quicksilver flake away in one of the stalls. He sighed, took a deep breath, and stepped back out into the hall, taking up his former position in the coverage gap of the cameras. He couldn't help grinning as his belly rumbled hollowly, and he let the wall hold him up while he waited for Hobbes and Charlie to emerge victorious.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_You know Charles Dickens? I mean, you have to. He's one of those Victorian authors that English teachers love torturing the kids with in high school. Great Expectations. Tale of Two Cities. Oliver Twist. Everybody's had to read at least one of his books in their lives. Well there's this one, David Copperfield, I think, where he says, "Accidents will occur in the best-regulated families.' I can see that; in my family, I was the accident, no question. I never met a regulation I followed. And then, there's Hobbes. Who never met a regulation he didn't respect, and made damned sure everyone around him did, too. In the last few days, irony and I have become fast friends. My straight-laced family got stuck with me; a petty crook, and from a family of crooks came this straight-arrow patriot, Bobby Hobbes. You gotta wonder, sometimes, just exactly what's an accident… and what's destiny…_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag

 

Darien had been left cooling his heels at the Lynches' home while Hobbes presided over a family pow-wow designed to set the limits of his involvement and establish Charlie's future. He would have given a great deal to be a fly on the wall in the room that particular conversation took place in, and even Maggie Lynches' long-delayed, but gentle, interrogation didn't distract him from his vague worry over Hobbes. Still, he found himself telling the warm, matronly woman a great deal more than experience and common sense would have led him to believe.

"No wonder you and Robert work so well together," Maggie said as she poured Darien another cup of orange pekoe tea and handed him the plate that held an assortment of homemade cookies. Darien selected an oatmeal one, dunking it in his mug and then sucking the tea out of the cookie. Maggie laughed. "You actually remind me a lot of him, when he was in high school. A lot of anger, a lot of intelligence, and basically, a decent soul, in spite of it all."

Darien felt himself blush. "So do you read crystal balls, too? Or just tea leaves?"

"A smart aleck, too," Maggie chuckled.

The sound of the front door slamming gave Darien a reprieve, and seconds later, Hobbes entered the sunny kitchen, bending to give Maggie's cheek a kiss. "Hi, beautiful, keeping the kid outta trouble?" he asked her, snagging a cookie for himself.

"Just comparing the sort of trouble he gets into to the sort you used to," Maggie answered with amusement. "Would you like a cuppa tea?"

"Thanks, anyway. I was kinda thinkin' Fawkes an' me would do a little last minute sightseeing before we fly out tomorrow morning," Bobby demurred. "'Sides, I'd kinda like to see if Segall's is still makin' the best bagels in the neighborhood."

Fifteen minutes later, Fawkes and Hobbes had walked the four blocks to the local bagel bakery, from which the most tantalizing scents were wafting. Within minutes, they were in possession of perhaps the best bagels Darien had ever tasted, liberally smeared, or in Bobby's words, 'schmeared', with cream cheese.

"So," Darien eyed his quiet partner. "How'd it go?"

Hobbes chewed his mouthful of bagel slowly, obviously thinking about what sort of answer to give.

"You ever hear the saying, you can't go home again?" Bobby asked, eventually.

"Yeah," Darien answered, not pressing his partner, simply chewing on his own bagel contemplatively.

"Yeah. Well, whoever came up with that one knew what they were talking about," Hobbes continued eventually.

"That bad, huh?" Darien commiserated sympathetically.

"No, Fawkes. You're not hearin' me… It ain't the way it always was. It wasn't the three of them against me. It was me against the three of them. And I won this round." The slow grin that spread over Bobby's mouth as he stood gazing up at the cloudless sky made Darien grin as well.

"So what happened?" Fawkes asked, hoping Hobbes wouldn't clam up now.

"Charlie's off the hook. Becka's husband passed along the word for D'Amato to take possession of Charlie's company for about fifty percent of its market value, and Chuck and Deb'll be heading to the Bahamas for a… permanent vacation. I told my brothers I ain't gonna be derailing any investigations for them, so not to even ask. When word comes down about the one we had Eberts put in motion with the Department of Justice, the crap'll really be hittin' the fan. With a few million miles of bad wire in his warehouse, Charlie's company'll be the first solid lead the Feds'll have on D'Amato. According to what Charlie told me, the Dragon Lady's been keeping records of where every spool came from and where it was used. Charlie's company is gonna be the iceberg that sinks D'Amato's Titanic."

"So your cousin is out from under, you've gotten your brothers and sister to back off, and Eberts is making a mint on the interest from the twenty three mil in that Cayman account while Charlie settles into the good life. Not bad for a few days work, Hobbesy. Not bad at all," Darien smiled. "You the man, my friend. You the man."

"Yeah," Hobbes nodded, satisfied.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien and Bobby wandered around the Manhattan Battery Park area across the harbor from the Statue of Liberty, admiring the views across the river. Slowly, however, Darien became increasingly aware of the odd mood his partner had fallen into. More than once, he caught Bobby looking back over his shoulder at the impressive skyline of Manhattan behind them.

"What?" he asked at last, catching Hobbes in the act for the fifth or sixth time. "What're you lookin' for?"

Hobbes sighed and turned back to his partner. "Nothin'," he said, looking back out over the water. "You ever think about what that means?" he asked, waving a hand in the direction of the weathered copper landmark that presided over one of the historic gateways to America.

"Liberty?" Darien snorted. "Uh, yeah? Like, all the time?" he said sarcastically, sounding a bit like a quintessential 'valley girl' from the 80s. "Was that a rhetorical question?"

"That's right, crack a joke, funny man. It's that kinda attitude that's the problem, Fawkes. People want liberty. Freedom. But they ain't so keen on the responsibilities that come with it." Hobbes turned away from the view and started back along the walk, towards East Broadway, which ran in a curving path along the shoreline.

"I resemble that remark," Darien quipped, a little hurt by this assessment. While it might have been true when they'd first begun working together, he'd gained both willingness and opportunity to accept some of those responsibilities. It was that that had brought him back to the Agency in spite of the Official's actions in trying to deny Fawkes the cure to the madness that had once accompanied the use of Quicksilver.

"No you don't, not any more," Hobbes disagreed and Darien relaxed a little, though he was no closer to identifying Hobbes' moodiness than he was before. He followed Bobby quietly for a long while, north along East Broadway, then right onto Wall Street, back towards the river, not sure where they were going until the racket of construction impacted on his eardrums, looking around at the parade of well-dressed after-hours office workers surrounding them. The colorful posters and flyers posted on every phone pole, junction box and blank section of wall created a vivid backdrop for that display. A series of posters, patriotic with their wavering lines of red and white stripes, spangled with blue stars, advertised the upcoming remembrance of the events of nearly a year before, listing the things that would be occurring to memorialize the lives lost.

Hobbes saw him scanning the posters. "Kinda wish I was gonna be here for it, you know?" he admitted reluctantly.

Darien nodded, unsure if he actually did. The whole idea of what had happened on September 11th, 2001, made him feel vaguely queasy. Almost guilty. He could only imagine what it was like for Bobby, who had lost a friend and mentor that day.

"I wanna see it," Bobby said at last, turning troubled dark eyes on Fawkes.

"You sure?" Darien asked, knowing his own reluctance was seen and understood.

"Yeah. I'm sure. I feel like I owe it to Jack."

The long pause as Darien wondered how to respond must have made his ambivalence crystal clear, because he could read both determination and empathy in Bobby's expression. "Ok," he said at last.

"You don't have to, you know," Bobby informed him.

"Yeah, I think I do. I'm here to watch my partner's back. Can't do that from out here," Darien said, scuffing the toe of his desert boot along one of the seams of the sidewalk. "Let's go," he added eventually, a little chilled, standing there in the late afternoon shadows of the construction site.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Bobby ignored Darien as the younger man crammed his hands into his pockets and shuffled his feet, shivering a little. "Can we go, yet?" Fawkes asked with a hint of a whine as the evening breeze off New York Harbor began to pick up.

Bobby glowered at him disapprovingly and went back to his contemplative survey of the construction work that had been undertaken at Ground Zero in the aftermath of September 11th. In and of itself, as seen from the observation platform, it was no more remarkable than any one of countless other excavations. Heavy equipment, never silent, these days, in this place, continued their dirty and thankless work. Steel I-beams were stacked in orderly piles and also lined the edges of the pit, reinforcing the sides of the deep hole. But as a native of New York, for Hobbes, this site was unlike any other in his experience. Memory superimposed on reality made the reality even harder to comprehend than mere photographs ever had. It wasn't that anything he'd seen surprised him; it was more what he didn't see that made something grim settle in the pit of his stomach. He tried to tune out his younger partner's restless shifting of position, knowing Fawkes simply had no way of understanding the magnitude of what he was seeing.

"Hobbes, I'm getting cold, here. And hungry," Darien added as an afterthought, uneasily banging the toe of his boot repetitiously against the railing he leaned on.

His smaller partner straightened slightly, but his change in bearing instantly penetrated Darien's unhappy self-involvement. "You're  _hungry_ ," He repeated bitingly, and took a step towards Fawkes, catching and holding his partner's gaze. "I know you don't get it, pal, but this hole in the ground was a world-famous landmark not so long ago, before a whacko with an agenda and a bankroll talked a bunch'a fanatics into turning it into so much rubble," he began. "You never saw 'em in the flesh, so I guess there's no way you can really understand, Fawkes. But these buildings," he waved a hand skyward as if conjuring the demolished structures back into existence, "they were… special. It's not just that they were big. There're a lotta big buildings in the world. But the towers, well, the name said it all. They were the' World Trade Center', Fawkes. You ever stop to think about what that means?" he peered earnestly up at Darien, forehead furrowed slightly.

Darien frowned, trying to see where this was leading.

"Trade, kid. WORLD Trade. They stood for New York, the financial hub of this nation's economy. Wall Street. The Federal Reserve. The World Bank. Those buildings weren't just about the American economy, either. You have any idea how many companies from how many countries had offices in those towers? The fruitcakes who aimed those planes into those buildings declared war on the world, not just on us." Hobbes turned away to look back at the pit, and as he did, a particularly strong gust off the water swept under the enormous American flag hanging like a painting from the side of the observation deck, making it billow outward over the site.

The soft sound from Darien beside him made Hobbes glance his partner's way again. Fawkes was shivering visibly now, and Hobbes suspected it was with more than cold.

"It's not the wind that's bothering you, is it?" Bobby asked quietly. "It's the people. The ones who frickin' jumped, rather than burn to death. The ones who disappeared. The ones they're still lookin' for some little tiny piece of. People like Jack. Who died tryin' to save their lives. That's what's gettin' to you, isn't it?"

Fawkes' expression was bleak and he refused to meet Hobbes eyes, focused instead on the massive construction vehicles lumbering across the raw earth below. "I couldn't care less about the damned buildings," he said softly, and finally turned his head to look at his partner. "Buildings don't die.  _People_  do." He looked away again, struggling for words. "I don't get it, Hobbes. What is it that makes people like Bin Laden… like Arnaud… think that killing a bunch'a innocent people is the way to make some kinda  _point_?"

Hobbes had no answer for that, none that his less callused partner would understand. For Fawkes, even more so than for himself, this wasn't the site of a demolished building; it was a grave. "There's a lotta people out there who don't think the way you do, Fawkes," he said eventually. "There are people out there with grudges, with agendas, with plain ole' evil in their hearts. Only other people like them can make any kinda claim to know what makes them do what they do."

"Then how do we stop them, if we can't understand them?" Darien asked, his genuine desire to know making Hobbes shake his head slightly.

"We do the best we can, partner. We do the best we can. And try like hell not become one of them," he answered, knowing it was no answer at all.

Fawkes was silent for several more minutes, and Bobby divided his own attention between the site and his younger partner's brooding introspection.

"When was the last time you saw them?" Darien asked eventually.

"The towers? The last time I was in New York… About the time Viv and I…. I went up on the roof deck to just… sorta think about things." He trailed off, electing not to revisit the nest of painful memories associated with that period of his life and career. He was aware of Darien's attention now focused on him. "You know, sometimes I wish… Things were different," he admitted eventually. The intensity of Fawkes' scrutiny discomfited him.

"Different how?" Darien asked gravely.

It was Hobbes' turn to sigh. "Life, my friend. Life. Wish I could go back and do a few things differently, know what I mean?" he asked, glancing sideways at Fawkes.

"Man. Tell me about it." There was a lengthy silence as Darien gazed across the excavation thoughtfully. "So… What's the first thing you would change?" he asked at last.

Hobbes considered for a moment before answering. "I'd'a played politics a little better, tried to keep a handle on my temper. Gotten help sooner than I did. Maybe if I had, I'd still be in the FBI. Still be married." He paused, making a face. "Then maybe I'd have a shot at gettin' into the new Counter Terrorist unit they're puttin' together at the Bureau. With my military intel background? A stint in Desert Storm? I got some insight, ace. Some expertise. It'd just be nice if I could use some of it, you know?" With his attention focused on the earth movers below, suddenly harshly illuminated as the stadium lighting came on to allow 24 hour work, he failed to catch the expression on his partner's face.

Darien scowled briefly, then straightened, his own attention turning back across the pit at his feet. "Maybe someday you'll get your shot, Hobbesy," he announced, voice certain.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_When I first got roped into life at the Agency, it didn't seem like there was much of anything in my life that mattered any more. The only family I had left was my aunt Celia, who I didn't visit often enough, and my father's mother, who might as well have been as dead as I thought my dad was, then. My brother had just died in my arms, my girlfriend dumped me, and I think I was more alone at that moment then I've ever been in my life. I wasn't kidding when I told Hobbes I missed having family. It sorta gives you a place in history, a connection to the rest of the species. But if having them back meant losing the friends I've gained? I'm not sure I do it. A British novelist named Samuel Richardson wrote a long time ago; A brother may not be a friend, but a friend will always be a brother. After the last week, I have to say I agree with him. Hobbes and me, we're friends. And because of that, we'll always be brothers. It's nice to have family, again…_

 

End


	5. Close Encounters of the Quicksilver Kind (season 3, episode 5)_

Episode Five

  **Close Encounters of the Quicksilver Kind**

 by Nikki and Carol

(selected banter by Tracy)

 

Teaser

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

As the door of the abandoned warehouse opened, the glaring light that cut through the harsh blackness of night was blotted out by two shadowy figures emerging slowly through the doorway. The two men couldn't have been more different.

Balor Feris stood just over six feet tall and looked more like one of the Baldwin brothers than the low-life criminal he portrayed himself to be. He pulled on his well-worn black leather jacket to block out the cold desert air as he brushed his shoulder length black hair out of his emerald green eyes and glanced at the other man, known to him only as Sir.

Sir had never spoken one word about himself, but his image revealed enough. His custom-made Armani suits were expensive, but did nothing to cover up his massive girth. His nails were all perfectly manicured, and the pinky one on his right hand was long enough to sample any sort of product that might come his way. He brushed a hand over his expensive, yet ill-fitting toupee, as Balor pulled the door shut.

Balor turned to the older man and extended his hand. "Thank you, Sir," he said glancing towards the man's limo.

"As always, Balor, it has been a pleasure doing business with you," grunted the older man violently shaking Balor's hand.

As soon as the man released Balor's hand he turned and lugged a large duffle bag to the white limo that he had arrived in. Balor returned to the building, counting back from 50 as he went. Under a table laid a duffle bag identical to the one the older man carried, along with a silver attaché case. The open bag revealed 30 plastic bags stuffed with cocaine. Balor zipped up the black gym bag and grabbed the case as he hurried outside towards his black car, hidden at the back of the warehouse.

Balor reached his car and quickly got in, throwing the bag and attaché case on the passenger's seat. Then he peeled away from the warehouse, his tires screeching through the night. As he drove off, he stared into the rearview mirror and continued to count down.

"5, 4, 3, 2, 1...."

BOOM! He watched the older man's car burst into flames, nearly taking the warehouse with it. He smiled slightly and reached for the attaché case, popping it open. Staring up at him were thousands of dead presidents, Ben Franklins and Ulysses S. Grants.

"Piece of cake," he mumbled as he closed the case and stepped on the gas.

Hours later, Balor passed the "Roswell- 5 miles" sign. He pressed the gas pedal harder as the thought of a cold beer and a hot meal made his stomach growl.

"Finally," he breathed as he crossed the city limits, minutes later.

Seconds after passing the sign his sleek, black 2002 Ford Contour sputtered and died. Warning lights on the dashboard began to flash as the wheels locked up and the speed dropped.

"What the hell?" yelled Balor, as he slammed his fist into the steering wheel and pulled the car to the side of the road.

Getting out of the car, Balor opened the hood, propped it up and stared dumbfounded at the sight of the metal engine. In his 35 years of existence, he had learned to crack 12-inch solid steel safes, build complex bombs with common household items, and run drugs, money, and illegal aliens across the Mexican border, never once getting caught. But the internal combustion engine was the one thing he could never master or even begin to understand.

Balor stuck his hand under the hood, determined that rattling something would get the car to turn over. Placing his hand on what he thought was the battery, he suddenly jerked it back as the radiator burnt his palm.

"SSSSHHHH………" he screamed as his body jerked up and back, his head slamming into the hood. "Damn it!"

Coddling his throbbing hand to his chest, he ripped his cell phone out of his pocket and called the one man he knew could help him. Bob Reeves, tow truck driver extraordinaire, among other things.

"Yea, yea, I know that it's two in the morning," Balor groaned, leaning against his lemon of a car. "Bob, I need you to come and get me."

Balor paused listening, then growled into the phone, "YES! It died again," pausing once again. "The back road off of 285, at the city limits, you know the way. HURRY UP!"

Balor flipped his phone closed and frowned as he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, a bright light coming from the distant mountains. He looked up and saw the light rapidly approaching, seemingly aiming right for him. The wind began to whip around him, sending clouds of dust into the air. A continuous thumping sound enveloped him as the moving light quickly approached. He held up his hand to block out the blinding glare and dropped his phone as the light started to shine directly overhead.

As the bright light dissipated, nothing was left on the side of the road but the 2002 Ford Contour and a cell phone.

When Bob pulled up a few hours later, he knew something was wrong. The burly, bald man with a foot-long salt and pepper beard pulled his tow truck to the side of the road, staring at Balor's car. For a second he stayed in the truck, looking around for signs of life. All that was within sight was Balor's car, its hood up, headlights on, and the driver side door hanging open. Bob turned off his engine and opened the door of his tow truck. He climbed out and stared at Balor's car, hearing the sound of the Ford's engine purring softly.

"Bro? Bro, where are you?" he yelled. "Come on, you call me at 2 a.m., make me drive two hours and then your car is fine? BASTARD!"

Bob lumbered over to the car, feeling something snap under his foot as he went. He slowly lifted up his foot, revealing a cell phone, which was now totally destroyed. As Bob crouched down and picked up the phone, he saw the broken face plate, a skull and crossbones, one Balor had bought only a month before.

"Damn," he mumbled.

Bob walked towards the door of the Ford, switching off the car and grabbing the keys, as his eyes roamed around looking for Balor.

"Dude, where are you?" Bob called out into the stillness of the night.

Once again looking around, his eyes returned to the Ford and saw the black duffel bag and the attaché case sitting on the front seat. He curiously opened them both up and whistled in appreciation when he saw the contents. He looked around cautiously and then snatched them up, hurrying off towards his truck.

"Sorry, bro, but didn't your momma ever tell you not to leave valuables lying around," he said throwing the bags in his truck and speeding off down the road.

Weeks later, Balor's car was still sitting on the side of the back road, hardly resembling its former self. The harsh desert winds had glued a thick layer of sand to every inch of the formerly shiny metal. As the sun began to set, Balor materialized in the distance, struggling to walk. Balor lurched through the nearly flat desert, tripping over tumbleweeds, cacti, and clumps of dried grass. Struggling through the desert, Balor blinked his eyes rapidly as a slight breeze blew up the sand around him.

Balor stumbled onto the flat road, falling to his knees. His clothes were tattered and his formerly thick hair was gone, leaving his bald head badly sunburned. As he struggled to pull himself up, his eyes focused on his car, and a weak, delirious smile played across his entire face. The delirious look vanished seconds later as a coyote ran into the road, oblivious to the injured man.

The coyote stopped, sniffed the air, and turned towards Balor, baring its teeth. Balor started to shake in fear as the coyote took a step forward, seemingly unafraid of the intruder in his path. A look of complete fear spread across Balor's face as the animal approached. His heart began to race as a cold sweat broke out on his skin. The coyote froze, staring at the man standing before him. Balor's body began to shake as the cold sweat suddenly spread down his body, completely covering his leg. The coyote turned and ran, yelping at the convulsing man and the strange event that was happening. Balor looked down at his leg and his face went white. Knowing that he had two legs, he stared in shock at the one leg he saw. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he fell to the ground in a crumpled heap in the middle of the dusty road.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

::Cue Theme Music::

**There once was a tale about a guy who could turn invisible. I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me. OK, so here's how it works: There's this stuff called 'quicksilver' that can bend light. My brother and some scientists made it into a synthetic gland, and that's where I came in. See, I was facing life in prison and they were looking for a human experiment. So we made a deal; they put the gland in my brain, and I walk free. The operation was a success... but that's when everything started to go wrong.**

::Music Fade Out::

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act I

 

Lying fast asleep in his bed, tucked securely under a sea of blankets, Darien turned in his sleep, remembering the moments before his brother's death. Darien could hear Kevin's shoed feet pounding next to the sound of his bare feet hitting the floors of the laboratory. They ran into the main hall and stopped, staring at Arnaud's man standing in front of them, the man's gun raised and ready to fire. Darien could feel Kevin's hands press against his chest, firmly pushing him out of the line of fire. Darien felt his body fly back into the alcove created by the support beams of the building. Landing hard, he lifted his eyes to his brother still standing in the hall, Kevin's eyes pleading with him to stay there.

Then he watched in horrifying Technicolor as Kevin's body was riddled with bullets, his chest instantly turning a sickening shade of crimson. After that, Darien felt himself snap the gunman's neck, the harsh noise sounding like thunder striking through a quiet night.

In his dreaming mind, Darien prepared to once again hold his brother in his arms as he slipped away. But this time it was different. Kevin didn't die. At least, not when he was supposed to. Instead, Kevin was trying to tell him something. Darien leaned down over his brother's mouth and tried to make out Kevin's words. "A new one," his brother choked out. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he was gone.

Darien bolted straight out of bed, his breath coming in harsh gasps and his eyes a well of unshed tears. He shook his head slightly, as if trying to get rid of the remnants of his nightmare. He glanced towards his clock and groaned when he saw the glowing red numbers of 2:35 in the morning staring back at him. He looked longingly towards his pillow and ran a hand through his disheveled hair, sighing slightly.

_There is no way I am going back to sleep after that_ , Darien thought, letting out a weary groan and falling back onto his pillows.  _Too bad I don't have to be at work till later_.

After three hours of running Kevin's death over and over again in his mind, Darien slowly got out of bed and padded towards the bathroom. Darien climbed into a shower so hot it managed to steam up not only the bathroom mirror but also the windows halfway across the apartment. When Darien realized that his fingertips were turning completely into prunes, he emerged from the bathroom wearing only a towel and a tired scowl.

Darien walked to the kitchen, grabbing a drink out of the fridge, glanced out the window at the rising sun and decided he needed to get the hell out of his apartment. He quickly dressed in a retro printed button-down shirt, a pair of day-glow orange pants and his signature pimp-daddy, fur-lined tan jacket, then located his keys and stepped out the door.

After locking up his apartment, Darien walked aimlessly out of his building with no particular sense of direction or urgency. He absently walked towards the corner, deciding to go to his friendly neighborhood newsstand to check out the latest issue of Philosophy Now or Playboy, whichever he came across first, hoping it was Philosophy Now, so that he could actually read it in public without disappearing. He quickly rounded the corner, not prepared for the slender woman that he suddenly crashed into.

She stumbled forward and dropped the paper she was reading. When Darien saw the woman's face, his mind flashed back in time, and he knew that he was in for it. It had been about six months since he had seen her, and the only day they had been "together", he had been escorted out of her apartment, half naked, by a nosy Hobbes and Monroe, before anything could happen.

She looked as beautiful as he remembered. Her short curly hair had grown out a bit, just enough that Darien had to resist running his fingers through it. The smooth dark skin of her face, which once glowed with wanting, now radiated anger and a hint of embarrassment. Her athletic body looked great in her low cut jeans and the cropped Superman T-shirt that hugged her tightly in all the right places.

The way he had felt about her barged into his mind instantly, but he knew that she wouldn't feel the same way after he had been forced to run out on her. Hobbes and Monroe had taken care of that. Rachel looked up and stared at him for what seemed like hours. When she finally recognized Darien, her eyes narrowed and a small but menacing growl escaped her lips.

"Rachel·uh· hi," he mumbled dropping his eyes to the ground.

Before Darien could apologize for disappearing or even for running into her, she turned on her heel and stalked off.

"At least she's not pissed," he sighed, kneeling down and picking up the paper that she had been leafing through at the stand.

"The World Chronicle. Who reads this crap? What the...?" he said to himself as he stared in shock at the cover of the rag. Across the front of the paper were the words, "I was abducted by aliens and now I can turn invisible." Darien stared at the cover, reading the headline over and over again. He flipped the paper open and quickly scanned the article.

"Aw crap," he exclaimed out loud as he quickly bolted from the newsstand, throwing a few bills at the man behind the counter.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Now I don't know if aliens exist, well, no one at the Agency will tell me if they do, but as Jay Leno once said, "How would it be if we discovered that aliens only stopped by Earth to let their kids take a leak?" Of course if that were true, it would have made this case a little easier. But as fate would have it, our alien was interested in a little more than just relieving himself._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The Official's office was silent as the no-nonsense bureaucrat reread the article that Darien had brought him. He cursed loudly slamming the paper back on his desk. He leaned back in his chair and sighed.

"Let me guess, he's one of yours?" Darien said angrily from his position in a chair next to Hobbes opposite of the Official's desk.

"No," The Official growled, watching Darien's face shift from disbelief to surprised belief.

"So Roswell, huh?" said Hobbes ignoring his partner's comment. "That place is a hotbed of UFO activity," he said matter of factly.

"Wait," said Darien staring at his partner in disbelief. "You mean you actually believe in this stuff?" he asked pointing at the cover photo of an alien space ship.

Hobbes shrugged, "I'm not a card carrying member of MUFON if that's what you mean. But if any Martian's gonna invade Earth, Roswell will be his first stop."

"Uh, MUFON? I'm not following you?" Darien asked.

"The Mutual UFO Network," the Official sighed.

Eberts burst into the room, holding a thick file in his hands. "Sir, I have gathered some very interesting information on The World Chronicle and the writer who did the story."

"Shut up,  _Eberts_ ," sneered Hobbes.

"Well, actually, it probably would be a good idea to check out this guy and see if he's just some hack who made the whole thing up," Darien stated, looking at the Official and then Eberts.

Hobbes rolled his eyes. "Fine. What sensitive intel did you collect for us,  _Eberts_?" he said sharply.

Eberts cleared his throat and began to read the file he had brought with him. "The reporter's name is Tucker Burns. Mr. Burn's career path took a sharp turn in college after a controversial and prize-winning article. It seems that Mr. Burns was tricked into writing a false piece about a professor and he lost every ounce of what little credibility one can earn in college. His name has become equal to that of journalistic pariah, and his résumé remains untouched by all major publications throughout the country. The only job he was offered was at The World Chronicle, last year," mumbled Eberts. "But, because of an unforeseen cut back of funding the paper's New York office has been  _closed_. The entire staff of the paper has been reassigned to The World Chronicle's West Coast office in Los Angeles."

Darien glanced at Hobbes excitedly. "LA, nice. Watch out, Nicole Kidman, The Invisible Man's coming."

"Go grab your autograph book, Gland Boy. I'll meet you in the van in five," said Hobbes.

Darien nodded and quickly stepped out of the office. Hobbes was about to do the same before the Official stopped him.

"Bobby," said the Official.

"Yeah, Chief?" asked Hobbes.

"We need to get this guy," he said in a serious tone.

Hobbes nodded, "We'll take care of it, Chief," he said before following his partner out the door.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Four and a half hours later, Hobbes and Darien were driving through the streets of LA trying to find the headquarters of The World Chronicle.

"It should be right around the corner," said Darien as he glanced at a map. He looked up and pointed at a ritzy, Victorian mansion on their left. "Hey, isn't that William Shatner's house?"

"Hey, you were the one that sold maps of the stars homes, why you asking me?" Hobbes asked as he smirked and turned the corner, passing right by the office they had been looking for.

"Hobbes, what did I say?" said Darien in irritation. "Right around the corner means right around the corner."

"Right around the corner is a little too vague for me, my friend," said Hobbes as he attempted a quick U-turn in heavy traffic. The force of the turn caused Darien to slam against the side of the van.

Darien straightened himself out and then glared at Hobbes. "You did that on..."

Darien was interrupted as Hobbes made another fast turn, this one into the parking lot of the Chronicle. The force smacked Darien back against the window as Hobbes threw the van into a space and slammed it into Park, causing Darien to lurch forward in his seat. "Next time, I drive," he growled as he got of the van.

Hobbes smiled in amusement and followed his partner up the walkway towards a large five-story brick building. "Get ready to meet some whackos, pal," said Hobbes as he opened the door and let Darien through.

What greeted them on the inside of the building was mind blowing to say the least. Though the directory said The World Chronicle only took up the second floor, with the third through fifth floors being deserted, the interior of the second floor was three stories high. The walls were entirely white, with no windows, no designs, nothing. The office floor was set up in an awkward semi-circle, with a large reception desk in the front. The staff was bustling around, but hardly a sound could be heard because the entire office seemed to be padded. People walked by Darien and Hobbes, speaking in hushed tones, and completely avoiding eye

contact.

"Fawkes, if I didn't know better, I would think that there's something other than bogus journalism going on here," Hobbes commented as his latent paranoia crept to the surface.

As they walked to the receptionist's desk, they couldn't help but overhear what the hefty redheaded woman was saying into her headset.

"So, you have proof that President Bush is a robot being controlled by the Republican Party!" exclaimed the woman with faked enthusiasm, pausing as she rolled her eyes. "Oh, so you hacked into his mainframe and you programmed him to declare world peace immediately with offenses being punishable by death. Let me connect you to our android division."

"A robot?" asked Darien, rolling his own eyes.

"You'd be amazed who's being controlled over there," Hobbes answered, scanning the room suspiciously.

"May I help you?" the woman asked, looking at them like they were the aliens.

"I am Agent Hobbes, and this is Agent Fawkes," Hobbes answered as both flipped out their badges.

"We're here to see Tucker Burns," said Darien leaning against the desk.

"Department of Fish and Game? You've got to be kidding me," she chuckled, causing both of them to raise their eyebrows, and blush slightly, at her fast reading.

"Miss·Miss·uh·ma'am," started Hobbes.

"Vera!" she exclaimed, pointing to the large nameplate on the desk.

"Yes, Vera, we have an appointment with Tucker Burns."

"PIGBOY!!!" hollered Vera, barely letting Hobbes finish.

Hobbes looked startled, "Pig..."

"Boy?" finished Darien holding back a laugh.

"You beckoned, my dear," sighed a short man, with a nose shaped like a snout, as he popped up behind Vera's desk.

"Sal, these two are here to see Tuck," said Vera. "Could you take them to his desk?"

"Of course, I have nothing else to do right now," answered Sal sarcastically.

Following this odd man, who looked like some sort of amalgamation of human and pig, was not the strangest thing they had ever had to do, but it was way up on their weird-crap-o-meter. So they went along with it. As they came to one of the smaller and cleaner cubicles in the office, Sal stopped and turned to them.

"So, Fish and Game? Are you guys here to fight for my equal rights?" he asked, his pig nose twitching. "If you are, you're about to talk to the wrong guy."

"Um, no. But can I ask you a question?" asked Darien as he sat in chair opposite of the desk. "How did you come to... um... look like this?" He waved a hand towards Sal's face.

"Long story about a drunken night my mother had back home on the farm," Sal answered as he turned to leave.

"Must have been one hell of a party," said Hobbes.

Sal ignored the comment. "Tuck will be with you soon," he said before stepping out of the cubicle.

Darien turned to Hobbes, and gave him a strange look, "And you think I'm weird."

"Yup, partner, this place pretty much holds the Guinness record for weirdness," Hobbes answered as he looked around the small cubicle.

Tucker Burns' cubicle was fairly average. One panel held hundreds of photos, some of which were obviously professionally taken family photos and others of which were amateur personal photos. A few of the amateur photos were covered up with black paper, causing Hobbes to step forward and peek around the paper curiously.

"Looks like we're dealing with the next Hugh Hefner," said Hobbes as he removed one of the black papers to reveal a nude photo of a beautiful woman.

Darien smirked and then glanced at the next panel, which was covered in scores of Post-It notes, each lined up alphabetically by the first word. As Darien looked closer he realized they were definitions, but not your average vocabulary. The Post-It notes ranged from alien references all the way to Wiccan curses and satanic rituals. In any other place they would have seemed weird, but in here, it was completely fitting.

The final panel contained clippings of articles that had been written by Burns, which seemed like a fairly normal decoration for the desks of most journalists. But then again, most journalists hadn't written articles about decapitations by headless bikers, sexually transmitted aliens, and ghostly possession that led to murders at a New Jersey Mall.

Hobbes shook his head and then sat down in the chair next to Darien, checking out Burns' desk, which contained only a computer and several sheets of paper with messages scrawled across them in thick black ink. The first sheet read "meeting with F&G agents????", the next read "Alien baby girl, Sloan Tate, born first week of July - check out LA" and the final one read "Invisible gov't agent, check out San Diego."

"Um, Hobbes," Darien muttered pointing to the third note.

"Don't worry, man," said Hobbes as he stood up and wandered around the desk, absently touching things. "They'll never find out."

"If you say so," said Darien as he absently started to play with a blue paper clip he had found on the floor. "You know, who ever invented paper clips must be rich. Think about it. People buy those things every day."

"And Post-Its," Hobbes responded, flicking a few of the ones on the side panel of the cubicle, whistling as he read the crazy definitions printed across them.

"White Out. One of the Monkees' mothers invented that," offered Darien

"Ah. Wish I could invent something like that."

"Office supplies?" Darien asked furrowing his brow.

"Yeah," Hobbes answered taking a seat at the desk once again.

"Oh! Staplers," Darien chimed in.

"Staples."

"Pencils."

"Pens," Hobbes said, picking up a pen and clicking it intently.

"Mechanical pencils."

"Paper."

"Paper?" Darien asked, once again furrowing his brow, quizzically.

"Yeah. That guy must be rich," Hobbes said, leaning back in Burn's chair.

"Hobbes, the Egyptians invented paper."

"No, papyrus," Hobbes said, pointing the pen at Darien.

"Papyrus paper."

"The Egyptians must be rich," Hobbes mused as Darien gave him a weird stare. "What?"

"It's sad really," Darien said, standing up.

"What? What?" Hobbes said standing up and raising his hands questioningly.

As Tucker Burns walked towards his desk he noticed the two men standing around bickering, like they owned the place. The two were as different as a pairing could be, as strange a partnering as Mulder and Scully. The differences only began with their heights, one being way over six feet, and the other maybe five. The taller one had a head full of bushy brown hair, and the shorter one was mostly bald. The one who could have been a stunt double for Bullwinkle was dressed very retro, with day-glow orange pants and an oddly patterned shirt, while the man closer related to Rocky, the flying squirrel, wore a tailored black suit. By the way things looked, this was going to be a very interesting meeting.

"Gentlemen, I am Tucker Burns. What can I do for you?" he asked, perching on the corner of his desk.

"Mr. Burns, I'm Agent Hobbes," the shorter man said again pulling out his badge. "We need a location and the name of your alien-abducted invisible man," he said as he pointed to the article pinned on the third panel.

"I'm sorry. I cannot reveal that information. Good day," said Tucker turning to leave.

"Oh, alright," Hobbes said in a friendly tone as he started to pull a very confused Darien up by the sleeve. "Nice meeting you, Mr. Burns."

"Hobbes, Hobbes, what the hell are you doing? The 'Fish is going to be pissed!" Darien blurted.

"It's just a shame that a journalist with such a promising future got bowled over with such a raw deal," mumbled Hobbes. "Too bad we weren't there to help."

"Excuse me, Agent... Agent," stuttered Tucker.

"Hobbes, Bobby Hobbes."

"What were you saying?"

"Oh, just that we are in a position where your situation here could be· let's say altered," Hobbes answered, smiling slyly and winking.

"Altered? How would you do that?"

"Oh, we have our ways," Darien chimed in, finally picking up on where Hobbes was going.

"So, is this a bribe?" Tucker asked.

"No, this is," Hobbes replied, fuming as he slapped down a hundred dollar bill.

"Excuse me, are you trying to compromise my journalistic integrity?"

"Let's face it, pal, as far as the outside world is concerned, your journalistic integrity was compromised long ago," said Hobbes.

Burns started to protest, but Hobbes went on.

"Look, Mr. Burns, this is a simple business arrangement. We need information, you have said information, and I'm just trying to make this beneficial for the both of us," answered Hobbes.

Tucker looked at Darien and Hobbes with a pensive look on his face.

"Well?" asked Darien after a pause.

Tucker stared at the two men, and shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

Hobbes looked disappointed. "Well, now I can see why you work for this tabloid and all your buddies work for the New York Times," Hobbes said, turning to leaving. "You should always cooperate with the government. You never know what we have hidden up our sleeves."

Tucker looked agonizingly from one agent to the other. He sat there silently staring, contemplating his options. He then sighed loudly.

"Fine. You can have the information," he said as he fell into his desk chair. "Just let me find it."

Tucker immediately started tapping away on his computer, as Darien and Hobbes took a seat in front of him.

Darien looked idly around the office, as Hobbes stared intently at Tucker. "This is a pretty nice place, you guys got here. Much nicer than my office," Darien said sarcastically. "I like the whole Post-It note thing."

"Um, yeah," responded Tucker as he glanced up from his computer, his eyes being caught by Hobbes' steady gaze. "Here it is. His name is Balor Feris. He was staying in his half built house at 235 Omaha Rd, in Roswell New Mexico. That's north of Highway 285. The interview itself took place at the Crash Site café."

"You sure that's the correct address?" Hobbes asked, craning to see the computer screen.

"Yea, yea it is," Tucker answered quickly turning the screen towards the man.

"Thanks for all your hospitality, my friend. Someone will be in touch with you shortly," Hobbes responded, standing up.

Darien quickly jumped up and followed Hobbes toward the exit. They passed by the receptionist's desk, which was now occupied by not only Vera, but also a very beautiful younger woman with long blonde hair and luscious lips. She glanced up at the two partners as they walked by and sighed with wanting.

"Hey, there, tall, dark and handsome. Looking for some alien loving?" she said, smiling seductively at Darien as her tongue slithered out of her mouth like a snake.

Darien stopped mid-stride, glancing curiously at the woman before Hobbes grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the office. As they walked out the door, they heard Vera say, "Come on, girl. Don't you know that short bald men are the ones to go for? They must have something going on that we don't know about."

Continuing out of the office, Hobbes smiled grandly as Darien ran to catch up with him.

"Hey, Hobbes. You know you left your hundred on that guy's desk, right?" Darien asked.

"Not my hundred, buddy, Uncle Sam's," Hobbes answered as they walked towards Golda. "I took it out of Eberts' petty cash box."

"Nice," Darien said.

As they returned to the Harding Building a few hours later, Darien was rereading the article about the man

now known as Balor Feris. Apparently Mr. Feris had a fondness for robbery, drugs and explosives. He also managed to describe an alien abduction scene that could have come straight out of any sci-fi movie, even Beach Babes from Beyond.

"So, Hobbesy. You think this guy's for real?" Darien asked as he tossed the paper into the back of the van.

"HEY! HEY! Keep her clean. Would you like me to get into that heap of junk you call a car and throw things around in it?" Hobbes hollered.

"Man, calm down. She's a mess already. It's just a piece of paper."

"A piece of paper here, an empty cup there. Next thing you know she'll be your own personal litter box. Just respect her enough to keep her clean. That's all I ask," Hobbes said in irritation. He gave the dashboard a tender stroke. "It's okay honey, he didn't mean it."

Darien looked at Hobbes like he had just remembered his partner was crazy. "Maybe I should've left you back at the Chronicle with the other freaks," he said sarcastically. "You been taking the meds, Bobby?"

"As a matter of fact, I have, pal," said Hobbes "Golda may not be KITT or Christine, but she's a hell of a broad and she's saved your ass more times than I can count. I think you owe her an apology."

Darien gaped at Hobbes, his mouth nearly on the floor. "Hobbes," he whined.

"Say you're sorry, Fawkes, or you can get out and walk," Hobbes said matter-of-factly.

Darien snorted and then shook his head in disbelief. "Fine. I'm sorry."

"Not to me, Fawkes, to Golda," said Hobbes.

Darien sighed. "Sometimes you scare me, man," he said under his breath. He reached his hand forward and set it on the top of the dashboard. "Golda, I apologize. I hope you can forgive me."

Hobbes smiled widely, his eyes twinkling. "That's better. Now what were you saying about this Feris mook?"

Darien gave Hobbes an incredulous stare and then shook his head. "I asked if you thought this guy was for real. But judging from the events of the last few minutes, I 'd say you think that not only is he for real, but that he's somehow related to you," he said as he leaned back and picked up the tabloid.

Hobbes narrowed his eyes. "Watch it there, Buckwheat. But in answer to your question, I think this guy is nuttier than my mother's pecan pie. It never hurts to look though, and our job isn't to judge if this guy is a loon, it's simply to find him," Hobbes answered as he pulled into the parking lot of the Agency.

"And what if this guy's not some psycho; what if he's telling the truth?" Darien asked curiously, getting out of the van.

"If that's the case, then we worry about it when we get there," Hobbes said as he followed his partner inside the Agency.

They entered the Official's office, taking their seats, as Eberts entered through the back door, carrying a thick folder marked "Confidential".

"Sir, I have some very interesting information about the original Roswell incident."

Hobbes made a mocking face and Darien dropped his head into his hands. The Official on the other hand, leaned forward in his chair, staring up curiously at Eberts."What did you find?"

Eberts gave Hobbes a smug smile and then started to explain,"On the night of July 4, 1947, a UFO reportedly crashed near the city of Roswell, then a farming and ranching community, in southeastern New Mexico. Originally the military did declare that there was a UFO crash, but on July 9th of that same year Brigadier General Roger M. Ramey declared that the supposed UFO was actually the crushed remains of a weather balloon," Eberts said as he passed a few pictures to the Official, Darien and Hobbes. "But in my recent access to various classified files on the matter, they have clearly illustrated that it was indeed much more than a simple meteorological measuring device. In fact, it was an·"

"Shut up, Eberts," the Official said, cutting off the other man in mid-sentence.

"So, we know that Roswell has had its problems with so-called aliens. But, do you really think that this guy's for real?" Darien asked leaning forward in his chair.

"Listen up, Kid," The Official growled. "You remember the invisible locusts? Did you really think that they existed before you saw what they did? This is completely need-to-know..."

"The ole need-to-know," Darien drawled out.

"Need-to-know, my friend," Hobbes answered, nodding knowingly.

"Shut up, Hobbes. We need to know if this person is real, or if he is just trying to get his 15 minutes of fame," barked the Official. "And if he is for real, then we need to take control of this before it gets out of hand. The public does not need to know."

"Okay, okay. We get it. We get it. We're on our way," complained Darien. "And if we don't return in a few days... call Mulder and Scully."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Two

 

Darien was a little rusty on his Star Wars knowledge, but it seemed that Jabba the Hutt had taken over the Official's office. He stared in awe at the giant mucky tan slug who looked like he had invaded the Official's closet and stolen a suit.

"Hoodyohn koosa fifty ahtoo?!" Jabba the Fish asked, smoking his pipe and adjusting the Official's tie, which was somehow stretching around his enormous neck.

"No sir, it doesn't make you look fat. I think it looks really nice," Darien answered somehow understanding but still hoping he was seeing things.

Jabba the Fish seemed to look pleased for a moment and then the look changed to one of irritation, "Koo nee dan, Hobbes?"

Darien shook his head. "Uh... no, sir. Hobbes will be here soon."

Slowly the door to the office opened, and in floated Yoda, wearing Hobbes' shades and ball cap. "Hi, says me, my friend, Fawkesy," said Yoda, putting out his little three-fingered hand for a low five.

"Hobbesy, how's it going?" Darien asked, slapping the little green alien's hand.

"Fine, says me."

"DAR-I-EN. DAR-I-EN," mumbled ET in a thick British accent, as he... she... it... came in the office.

"Glowing finger, me likes, Keep-ET," said Yoda Hobbes, raising a bushy eyebrow.

Jabba the Fish cleared his throat. "Nee labba no badda," he bellowed.

"What?" Darien asked, feigning shock. "An alien in the agency? No."

"My friend, indeed, find it we must," answered Yoda Hobbes.

Seconds later, they all turned as a loud pounding sound came from the door. Slowly Keep-ET waddled over to the door, pointing her glowing finger at the knob, which caused the door to magically open on its own. Blocking the entire hallway stood a drooling, metal-plated, nine-foot alien, whose only mission in life was to find her missing child. Quickly, her mouth opened, and a second little mouth exited the first and moved right up to Keep-ET's face, who shrunk back from the wretched smell the monster breathed on her.

"Ka pa me cheespa wata," Jabba the Fish bellowed as a cute and furry Ewok rolled into the office.

"Yub nub eee chop yub nub," Ebertswok said as he peeked over Jabba the Fish's desk.

"Umm, Chief," interrupted Darien.

Jabba ignored him. "Tinka me chasa hopoe ma booty na nolia," he screamed.

"Look around here, man," Darien said as he motioned to his fellow co-workers. "It looks like the Alien Nation started right here in this office."

"Aliens, we not be," said Yoda Hobbes pointing an accusatory finger in Darien's direction. "Alien, my friend, you be."

Seconds later, Darien felt the slimy claws of the giant Alex alien on his shoulders. They slowly began to dig into his skin as something cold and slimy traced a trail down the back of his neck. Drops of slime began to hit the top of his head as the Alex alien slowly peered over him. Her large mouth opened as her smaller one moved out. As the goo traced its way all over his body, Darien started screaming loudly in terror.

Darien sat up, breathless, still wiping at the nonexistent slime that covered his body, noticing that the lower half of his body had disappeared. He ran a frantic hand through his hair, making sure that none of the dream goo had invaded his luscious locks. Darien sat quietly, calming his breathing, as he realized that he was in Golda and that his alien encounter had all been a dream. As his breathing and heart rate returned to normal, the Quicksilver dropped to the floorboard of the van. Turning in his seat, Darien saw that Golda was parked in front of a dingy little gas station located right off the desolate highway that led towards Roswell.

Darien glanced through the dirty windows of the ancient gas station and could faintly make out Hobbes paying inside. He sighed and got out of the van, resting his body against Golda's hood as he took in the sights of the sandy desert highway that stretched out before him. A few seconds later, he heard the unmistakable footsteps of Bobby Hobbes approaching.

"Fawkes, you okay, partner? You were havin' one hell of a dream on the way here," Hobbes said, standing in front of his partner and wringing his hands. "Arnaud decide to put in an unwelcome guest spot or something?" he asked worriedly.

Darien smiled. "Not quite there, buddy. More like Marvin the Martian."

"Oh, I love him," Hobbes said, leaning against Golda. "So you're dreaming about little green men now?"

"More like little green Hobbesys," said Darien as he headed back into Golda.

"Huh?" Hobbes asked.

"Nothing," Darien said as Hobbes climbed up into the van, revved the engine and then steered Golda back onto the highway.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Three hours later, the partners were doing their best to make the most out of the long drive.

"Look there's a Florida one," Darien said as he pointed at a Ford truck that had suddenly passed them on the highway. The license plate read "FLGRLZ" across it in lime green. On the back of the truck were two bumper stickers: "Candy is dandy, BUT Liquor is quicker" and "A dirty mind is a terrible thing to waste."

The truck slowed a bit, matching their speed. As Darien turned and looked out the window, he noticed who was in the truck. He sat staring at the two stunning brunettes, who turned and smiled sexily at him.

"Look at the hotties," Darien said.

"Yup, a coupla tan, Florida hotties," Hobbes said as if his eyes had just had their own aphrodisiac.

"Yup, young hotties. Too bad we're a bit too old for them," Darien said.

"Naw. Those chicks want us, Fawkes," Hobbes said craning his neck to see into the car.

"Whatever you say, Hobbes. We are just a bit older than them."

"You may feel a bit unsure of yourself at your old age. But Bobby Hobbes has no problem getting younger women."

"I am not... OH WOW! Did you see that?" Darien said as a deep blush formed on his face.

"Kinda hard to miss that," Hobbes said with a smirk. "Here and all this time I thought Florida was flat."

Darien turned once more to gawk at the two bold women beside them. After a few more seconds of eye flirtation, the girls waved and sped off into the night.

Darien settled back into his seat and glanced over at Hobbes. "So that makes seven for me and... oh yeah, one for you, my friend."

"Some of us are watching the road, Fawkes and don't have time to play childish license plate games," Hobbes responded.

"Yeah, the road wasn't all you were watching," said Darien.

Hobbes snorted and shook his head.

For the next few minutes, they sat silently staring at the road before them. As random cars passed, Darien once again added up his total on his fingers, as Hobbes pretended to concentrate on the road.

"Maryland!" he suddenly screamed out as he spotted the state's plate on a silver Honda Accord speeding by Golda. "That's two, Fawkesy."

"I thought license plate games were childish?" mocked Darien.

"Only when I'm losing, pal," said Hobbes.

Darien scanned license plates with renewed vigilance. He was so busy looking at plates that he didn't notice the makes or models, until Hobbes spotted a blue Volkswagen turning onto the highway ahead.

"Blue punch buggie, no punch backs!" he yelled as he gave Darien a hard whack on the arm.

"Ow," Darien yelped as he raised his hand and immediately punched Hobbes back.

"What the hell?" Hobbes cursed. "No punch backs means no punch backs, my friend."

"That's not the way I play the game there, buddy," retorted Darien.

"You're a big cheater," said Hobbes.

"Yeah well, I've been accused of worse. Believe me," Darien said. Hobbes nodded in understanding.

"Somehow I do," he said. "But you still cheated," he added under his breath.

"Well who said we had to play by your rules," Darien said as he rolled his eyes and then settled back into his seat, staring straight ahead into the rapidly darkening night sky.

For the final leg of the trip, they drove in silence. Their steady breathing, the constant thumping of the seams in the road, and the wind rushing past their windows was all that needed to be heard. Both were in their own worlds: Darien's of spy games and comic book adventures; Hobbes' of the conspiracy of Roswell.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When they finally reached downtown Roswell two hours later, Darien instantly realized that this case was about to get a whole lot weirder. Everything on the main strip was either named Alien-something or had an alien hanging off of the sign. Even the McDonald's had aliens in the kiddy playground right next to The Hamburglar and good old Ronald McDonald.

As they pulled up to their motel, it was obvious that this place was going to be a dump, reminding Darien that once again his penny-pinching boss had stuck them in such a crappy place. The Mothership, as the glowing UFO sign declared, was made up of 10 to 15 little shacks that possessed a neon replica of the UFO on the roof, each flashing from the idiotic wit of someone who had never had a neon light constantly flash into their room as they were trying to sleep. The light board read, "Aliens welcomed, Earthlings accepted" with a little alien happy face smiling down at them.

As Hobbes and Darien walked into the front office, a man wearing a black suit and black shades greeted them, "Welcome to The Mothership."

As Hobbes signed for their room, Darien browsed through the jumble of fliers advertising the week's events on a table to the side of the counter. Scattered across the table were pamphlets for a multitude of seminars, some entitled "Alien Abduction: What to pack", "Roswell 2002: Where you should be to meet our friendly Grays", and "The American Government: Who is really human?" Other events included abductee art exhibits, abductee documentaries, and Gray's trivia. There were also pamphlets about local abductees and a few articles from pseudo-scientific journals about alien encounters.

Selecting a few of the fliers, pamphlets and journal articles, Darien took the keys from Hobbes, went to their room and fell onto one of the beds, stretching out his long legs, and reading about "The American Government" seminar.

A few minutes later, Hobbes entered the room carrying a six-pack of Corona and a fresh lime. "Okay, partner. You ready for a drink?" Hobbes asked, whipping out a pocketknife, slicing the lime, and placing two wedges in two opened bottles.

"Definitely," Darien said as he grabbed one of the bottles from Hobbes. "Hey, Hobbes. Look at this crap on aliens in the government." He handed the pamphlet to Hobbes. "You've been on the inside. Think there's any truth to it?"

"You never know, my friend, you never know," Hobbes responded, clicking on the TV. "I once knew this guy back in Beirut, who lived on a 36-hour day. He would sleep for 12 hours, and work 24. One of the best men I ever worked with."

"So, you think he was an alien?" asked Darien as he sipped his beer.

"Never said that, my friend. Just said it was strange, and that you never know," Hobbes said, polishing off his beer.

As Hobbes sat back and watched old reruns of M*A*S*H, Darien continued to look through the fliers, trying to understand what it would be like to be an abductee. For the next few hours, Darien read over everything he had acquired, trying to understand the phenomenon that kept this town in existence. Everything seemed circumstantial without one smidgen of real proof. Darien Fawkes was not a believer.

"Okay, Hobbes. Tell me what you know about aliens?" he asked as he sat up, rubbing at his tired eyes.

"Well, what do you wanna know? Where they come from? What they want? Who they're after?" Hobbes answered as he hit the mute button on the TV and turned to his partner. "Sorry, my friend. I can't answer that. All I know is that there's far too many stars, planets, and galaxies out there for us to be the only intelligent life around."

"Okay, You've seen Contact one to many times. That Jodie Foster on a cartoon Pensacola Beach obsession is just going a little too far," Darien responded, falling back on the bed. "What about Area 51? It's around here somewhere, isn't it?"

"Big tabloid spread misconception, buddy. Area 51 is actually in Utah, just north of Salt Lake City," answered Hobbes.

"That can't be," Darien said sitting up. "Everything I've read says that Area 51 is out here in the desert somewhere. Some of the people interviewed in these pamphlets say they've been there."

Hobbes shook his head. "Nope. There's nothing around here. Trust me on that," he responded clicking off the TV, and laying back on his bed. "Get some rest, man. We gotta go look for this guy tomorrow, and I don't wanna have to do all the work myself."

Darien lay back on his bed as Hobbes turned out the lights and thought about how one little event could spark a controversy that this town thrived on. As sleep pulled on his eyelids, Darien tried to block memories of Kevin and for that matter, aliens, from his mind. Instead, he tried to focus on what was good in his life. His mind instantly flashed to images of his friends and co-workers. Hobbes, Claire, Eberts, Monroe; hell, on a good day even the Official was in his corner from time to time. He had to admit that despite everything, it felt good to be a part of something. A family even. Darien let the pleasant thoughts send him into a peaceful dream involving a beach party with a half-naked Claire and Monroe.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The next morning came way too early for either agent. Both woke up groggy and with slight hangover headaches. As they staggered out of their room, Hobbes jogged towards Golda and pulled a pair of handcuffs out of the glove compartment.

"What do we need these for?" Darien asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"You never know," Hobbes answered, tucking one of the cuff keys in Darien's jacket pocket. "Just in case."

Walking out of the parking lot of the hotel, Darien and Hobbes' eyes immediately went to a mural that had a donkey carrying a UFO on its back. The mural read "Bad Ass Coffee, from our cups of Kona sip the nicest aliens in the universe." Both men nearly ran towards the building, their mouths watering for the sweet taste of a hot cup of Kona coffee. As they walked out of the store 10 minutes later, they sighed in delight as the smooth taste of the best American grown coffee slid down their eager throats.

"You'll never get coffee like this in San Diego. You gotta go all the way to Ventura or, I dunno, maybe Hawaii, to get this," sighed Darien, sipping the hot coffee gingerly, wanting to prolong his coffee experience.

As they walked around downtown, Darien took in the sights. The streets were packed with people, like Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras. The 2002 UFO Festival was well underway. Darien was shocked. He stared blankly at the men walking by with the wallets in their back pockets and the women with their large open purses. The idea of Quicksilvering his hand and slipping it into one of those purses crossed his mind, but quickly vanished as Hobbes stopped, his eyes piercing into Darien's skull.

"Hobbesy, look, an alien abduction museum," Darien said giddily. "Let's go in," Darien snickered, reaching for the door.

"Not now, Fawkes," Hobbes said pulling his partner away from the door. "Work first, play later."

"Aww, come on, man," Darien whined giving Hobbes his trademark puppy dog eyes.

"Later. We've got alien abductees to find," he said as he dragged Darien down Main Street. A few blocks later, Hobbes stopped short when he saw the Crash Site Caf_ on the other side of the street.

"This looks promising," Hobbes said pulling Darien across the street towards the entrance. They weaved through the street dodging the mass of tourists flowing out of the doors with bags filled with Alien Pops, large foam alien heads and antenna headbands. As they entered the caf_, a rack of Roswell t-shirts distracted Darien. He randomly pulled out shirts until he found two that would suit his quirky taste in clothing. One was a green one that had a bull's-eye and said, "Abduct me" in the center, and the second was a day glow orange one that said "I was abducted and all I got was this lousy t-shirt".

"Fawkes, come on," Hobbes said walking towards a booth.

"Yea, let me pay," Darien said as Hobbes stopped.

Hobbes turned and glared at his partner's idiotic spending.

The place was bustling with activity and people. Kids begged their parents for alien-shaped candy; parents idled around trying to get a break from the heat. But minutes later half the crowd pushed their way out of the restaurant, leaving Darien and Hobbes sitting at the far end of the nearly empty caf_.

The only waitress working was scurrying around serving the other tables filled with customers. Most of the other customers were impatiently trying to get her to take their checks as they glanced repeatedly towards the door, while Darien and Hobbes sat quietly, foaming at the mouth for more coffee. Darien cleared his throat nonchalantly as she walked by their booth.

The waitress turned her head and stopped short, "Yes, sir?"

"Um·can we get two coffees here when you get a chance?" asked Darien.

The waitress nodded. "No problem."

As the waitress left, Hobbes glanced around the caf_ and then looked at his partner. "Okay, tell me what you see, secret agent man," he said, lowering his voice.

Darien leaned back against the window and did his best to scan the room, noticing the variety of people in the alien hot spot. "Alright," Darien said, pulling all of his new training together. "Two groups of tourists, sitting on the other end..."

"How do you know?" Hobbes interrupted.

"Come on, Hobbes. It's obvious!" Darien answered, quirking one of his eyebrows.

"Then tell me."

"First set. The group of twenty-something's. Overly pierced and overly tattooed. Big city kids. One is flashing a lot of money. Another has a brochure about abductions in his back pocket. The third has a CBGB, NYC shirt on. Well-worn and stained with alcohol; probably tended bar there."

"Okay, what about the other group, my friend?"

"The older married couple with the two kids. The kids are acting average. Not like they are just a cover. The man has a wrist watch sunburn on his right wrist, probably from working on the lawn. Middle class family, the wife is wearing nice clothes, but they're knock offs, nothing upscale. The kids are wearing Nikes, but they're nearly worn through. Nothing out of the ordinary with them."

"What about the waitress?"

"Mid to late twenties. Wearing really cheap impostor perfume that she thinks smells really great. Uses way too much mousse in her hair, makes it all clumpy. Doesn't wear her wedding ring; probably wants to get better tips and thinks that's the way. And it probably works, 'cause it looks like she got a manicure last week or so, even though the polish is already chipping. Has a thick southern accent. Sounds like South Georgia, maybe Florida. Anything else?"

"Well, you didn't get everything, but you're getting better," Hobbes answered. "So, let's see how your CTS is going. Here comes the waitress."

Darien shrugged. "Practice makes perfect I guess."

As Drusilla returned with their coffee, Darien looked up with a sexy smile playing on his lips. "Hey, hon. How things goin' for you today?" Darien asked with a slight drawl as he looked her up and down, his smile growing.

"Mighty, fine," Drusilla answered with her southern drawl, blushing slightly. "How ya'll doin'?"

"Doin' all right, darlin'," he answered, drawling out his words even more. "So Drusilla, huh? That's an interesting name, Stacie."

For a second she looked surprised, but then she shook her head, "Just something I picked up here. It sounds a little more daunting than Stacie. Goes with the atmosphere. Uh... do I know you?"

"Not yet, but I'd love to change that."

As Drusilla's shift ended, Darien invited her over to the booth, while Hobbes moved to the counter. Darien pressed Drusilla for information about a certain abductee, finding out that Balor Feris had basically become the talk of the town. But that was all she really knew about him. But she *knew* more than her share on what really went on in Roswell, well at least about the aliens. With all the talk of abductions, Drusilla didn't actually know anyone that had ever been abducted. She had her own ideas about what had really happened over fifty years ago, but she still thought that the government was covering up something about the aliens. She said she had seen lights out in the desert on many nights, but knew that not everything the government said about the non-existence of aliens was the truth. Drusilla bought into the whole alien conspiracy more than she liked to reveal to the people she knew here. The real locals only bought into it because it added to their business. But being new to Roswell, Drusilla knew very few details about the town's newest claim to fame.

Hobbes was attempting to get the goods from an attractive young brunette woman who stood on the other side of the counter, from where he sat.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said as he leaned up against the blue tile counter, quickly flipping out his badge as she frowned. "I was wondering if an observant young thing like yourself would be able to tell me about a man named Balor Feris?"

"MMM, Balor. When God was passing out looks that man went back for seconds," she said nodding her head and sighing, and raising an eyebrow. "Oh... sorry. What do you need with him?"

"Oh, not much. I'm just with the Department of Fish and Game. I'm investigating a claim that was made against him involving some endangered jack rabbits he saw," Hobbes said, hoping this woman had no clue about the local wild life. "What can you tell me about him, Ms...?"

"Eileen. Just plain old Eileen," she said smiling over at him. "Well, Balor has only been in Roswell for about a year. At first he never came around town, everyone thought that he was some kind of hermit or something· we get a lot of folks like that out here. But then one day he showed up in town flashing a lot of cash around at the local bars."

"So, he became a regular barfly?" Hobbes asked, letting her see that smouldering smile that could get any woman to talk.

"No, not really," Eileen giggled, twisting a piece of her hair around her finger. "He only showed up once or twice a month, but when he did, the entire adult population would come home drunk. That always picked up our business the next day."

"He was a popular man?"

"Well, let's just say, that every woman wanted him, and every man wanted to be him. He was the city bike; everyone got a ride," Eileen said, rolling her eyes. "Well, almost every one."

"AAHHH, that kind of man. It's despicable what some of us vile creatures will do," Hobbes said, turning his charm on full.

"Well, yea," she sighed. "One day he bought this huge lot of undeveloped desert south of the city, and started building a gigantic house. A completely phallic statement, if you ask me. But I heard that the day that he returned after his so-called abduction, the construction men ran out on him. They took all of their tools, and sent him a check for what they didn't complete. It was strange, but no one really wanted to be around him after that."

"You're saying he started causing some problems after he came back from his... abduction?" asked Hobbes curiously.

"Oh, no. At first he was kinda reclusive. But then about a month after, he started coming into town, begging someone to believe him. No matter what the city advertises, most of the people here don't even care about aliens, it's just what gives us business," Eileen said as she jerked her head to the merchandise racks. "He ended up getting this group of tourists to believe him by pulling this crazy trick where he would slink into the crowd and make their hats and purses disappear. Of course, then he started making them permanently disappear and folks around here didn't take too kindly to that."

"Ah, so he got a little greedy? The cops do anything about that?" Hobbes asked furrowing his brows.

"Well, Balor pulled his disappearing wallet act on the wrong guy and took one hell of beating," she said smirking. "The sheriff went over and talked to him but figured what with everything Balor had been through, he'd leave well enough alone."

"And no one has seen him since?"

"Well, one of the local kids says that he was hiding out in his half-built house. But no one knows for sure," she answered, shrugging her shoulders. "The town is better off without him; we don't need that riff raff around here."

"No, you certainly don't, ma'am," Hobbes said, extending his hand. "It's been a pleasure, Eileen."

Eileen smiled. "Likewise," she mumbled dreamily as she shook his hand gently.

Hobbes stood up and motioned to Darien, who had become caught in a conversation about different types of aliens that Drusilla insisted actually existed. When Darien caught Hobbes' eye, he quickly ended the conversation and gave Drusilla a quick peck on the cheek, and a promise to come back for coffee again, before joining Hobbes outside.

"So, you get anything?" asked Darien curiously.

Bobby smirked, "Of course, but I think we should do a little field work before we go after the man of the hour."

"Lead the way, buddy," said Darien.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Two hours later, after a long drive and an endless conversation on what they had learned, Hobbes and Darien were roaming about the field next to the road where Balor had supposedly been abducted and then subsequently returned.

"Hobbes, I think I found something," Darien hollered as he kneeled down amongst a thick patch of dead grass.

"What is it?" Hobbes asked as he jogged over.

Lying on the ground, hidden beneath a large tumbleweed, was a dusty, broken pair of sunglasses. Darien pulled a pen out of his jacket and skillfully lifted the glasses without touching them. He delicately dropped them into a plastic evidence bag that Hobbes had brought over and continued to search.

As they continued walking through the endless desert, Hobbes yelled over, "Found any disembodied alien heads?"

"Nope. But you better watch out for loose tentacles, they have been known to hold on for dear life," Darien quipped as he stopped and looked at something that flashed in the distance. "Hobbes, something else."

Darien hurried over to the object, kneeling down to blow some surrounding sand off of it. "Ahh, never mind," he said, as Hobbes came up and leaned over his shoulder. "It's just a ball of duct tape."

"Good. Duct tape holds prints great. Let's just hope that someone touched this," Hobbes said, tapping the ball of tape into another plastic bag. "Whoever left this stuff is either stupid or is throwing us a red herring."

"Ya know, Hobbes. I don't understand why someone would choose this guy for the gland?" Darien asked as they continued to roam around the desert. "Why choose a complete stranger who just happened to be a violent criminal?"

"I don't think it is just a coincidence. Whoever did this probably knew that Feris was violent and hoped that would work in their favor," Hobbes answered. "What I don't get is the whole alien abduction thing."

"What about it?"

"Well, all documented abduction with implantations have never consisted of an implantation with noticeable side effects and nothing like your little Saran Wrap trick. Whoever did this didn't do their homework."

"Hobbes, I think we've pretty much established that this wasn't an alien abduction," Darien said rolling his eyes.

"I just mean consistency. If you're gonna go to the trouble of hoaxing an alien abduction, at least do it right. Dress up in an alien suit, impregnate the guy with an alien fetus," said Hobbes.

Darien raised his eyebrows. "Now you're scaring me."

"I'm just saying," said Hobbes in irritation.

Darien sighed heavily and plopped down onto a dead log, letting the warm afternoon sun bake his skin.

"This isn't a tanning salon, Fawkes."

Darien looked at Hobbes through squinted eyes. "There's nothing here, man. We've searched through every inch of this place three times and come up with zippo." He rested his arm over his eyes. "I think it's time to go see the man himself."

"Fine," said Hobbes. "We got the address Burns and Eileen gave us."

"Eileen?" Darien asked as he picked himself off the ground. "Something going on that I don't know about? Did Hobbesy go and find himself a small town gal? The Keep would be so jealous."

"You think?" Hobbes asked wistfully as they reached Golda.

"Oh absolutely, my friend," Darien replied. "The sooner she knows about Eileen, the better. Competition drives chicks out of their minds."

"You're forgetting one important thing there, Romeo. Bobby Hobbes doesn't fish off the company pier," he said as he started Golda.

Darien fastened his seat belt as Hobbes tore down the street. "Whatever you say, partner."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Three

 

As the worn Ford Econoline pulled up beside the only house on Omaha Road, both men searched for signs of any life.

The beginnings of what seemed to be a massive house resembled that of an old world adobe. Only half of one sidewall had been built, while piles of mud bricks lay stacked in the yard. Though the house looked new, it appeared to be caving in on itself. The beginnings of the roof were coving in and the unfinished part was covered with a dirty blue tarp.

Approaching the front door, Hobbes checked the small address numbers that lay on the ground next to what used to be the mailbox. 235. Walking up the overgrown path, Hobbes un-holstered his Colt .45 and checked the clip.

"Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?" Darien whispered, creeping up to the door.

"Shhh..." Hobbes hissed as he peeked into the hole in the door, which was supposed to hold a window. "Balor Feris... you in there?"

A barely audible moan once again put the agents on their toes as Hobbes slowly opened the door, the rusted hinges on the antique door squeaking loudly, causing Hobbes to wince, knowing they'd lost the element of surprise. Too late now. Hobbes slowly proceeded into the main room as Darien followed closely behind.

The only thing even resembling furniture in the dirty main room was a worn out mattress. The only light was coming from a cluster of embers still burning in a makeshift fireplace.

Hobbes eyes roamed the entire room, the only room that wasn't visible from the yard. He made his way to the corner of the room, his gaze resting on a pile of boxes filled with clothes, books and other personal items. He started sorting through the boxes, not noticing the small python that crawled out of one of the boxes.

"I got nothing," said Hobbes as he turned away from the boxes. The snake slithered out onto the ground and slowly wrapped itself around Hobbes' legs.

"Yeah, me neither," Darien said, glancing at Hobbes. He started back in surprise when he saw the snake. "Um Hobbes, look down."

"Huh?" Hobbes said in confusion.

Darien motioned down towards his feet. "Looks like you got a little friend there."

Hobbes looked down and yelped when he realized the snake had wound itself around his feet. "Aw crap," he said as he reached down and tried to remove the snake from his legs. As Hobbes tried to unwind the snake, its grip tightened.

Darien was about to assist Hobbes with the snake when he caught something out of the corner of his eye. He turned around and stared in shock as he saw the thin film of Quicksilver trickling over the body of the person he had come to recognize as Balor Feris. The shock of another man Quicksilvering disoriented Darien for long enough that Balor was able to tackle him. Before Darien hit the floor he Quicksilvered himself and watched as an orange fist headed in towards his face before it hit his chin.

"Fawkes," yelled Hobbes as struggled to get away from the snake to try and help his partner. Stepping out of the corner, Hobbes felt the whoosh of wind from invisible arms and legs flying through the air just in time to duck them.

"A little help?" Darien yelled.

"It would help if I could see what the hell was going on," Hobbes said as he aimed his gun at the area he figured Darien and Balor were fighting.

Darien unQuicksilvered a few seconds later. "Hobbes, the cuffs," he hollered, when he finally flipped an invisible Balor over.

Hobbes jerked the cuffs from his belt and handed them to Darien, who quickly secured them to Balor's wrists. Both men stared at the cuffs, hoping that this guy hadn't figured out how to freeze outside objects. Darien rose, wiping a trail of blood from his lower lip, and Quicksilvered his eyes.

"Hey, hey. We're not here to hurt you. Calm down and we can explain," Darien said, kneeling next to the floating pair of handcuffs.

"Get me the hell out of these!" screamed Balor as the cuffs squirmed around the floor.

"Look just calm down and let us see you, then maybe we'll take them off."

As the cuffs slowly began to stop moving, a vile grumble came from their position on the floor. A few seconds later, Balor's battered body came into sight.

Lying on his stomach, Balor's short fresh hair revealed a nearly five-inch incision. The back of his once classy leather jacket was covered in grime, and the places that were torn revealed his bruised back. The bottoms of his shoes were caked in dried mud and grass, and the soles were nearly worn away.

Slowly Darien leaned over the man and reached for his exposed shoulder. "I'm just gonna roll you over, be cool," Darien said as the loose python started to crawl near his own leg. "Hobbes, the snake."

"Oh right," Hobbes said as he located an empty box from the corner and quickly put it over the snake. He could hear the snake hissing from beneath the box. "The big bad python doesn't like that too much, huh?"

He glanced at Darien. "Huh?" he said with excitement.

Darien shook his head in confusion and slowly helped Balor roll into a seated position. Balor looked up and glared at the two men. Angrily, he began fighting with the handcuffs, trying his hardest to break free.

"Man, we don't wanna hurt you. Just calm down and we'll let you loose," Darien said, again kneeling in front of Balor.

Hobbes whipped out his badge. "I am Agent Hobbes, and this is Agent Fawkes. We saw the article about you in The World Chronicle, and have come to help you with your little predicament."

Balor stopped struggling and stared from one man to the other. The one named Hobbes stared back at him with a frustrated wrinkle in his brow, but the one named Fawkes looked sadly at him, with a hint of empathy. Balor turned slightly, giving Fawkes access to his wrists.

Darien took out the key from his pocket and unlocked the cuffs, "See, isn't that better?"

"So you really think you can help me?" Balor asked as he rubbed his wrists. "This has been the worst kind of hell," he said as he rolled his neck back and forth over his shoulders.

"Oh, it can get worse," Darien said offhand.

"WORSE?"

"Oh don't worry, just worse case scenario is all," Hobbes said, glaring at Darien. "So, why don't you tell us how it happened."

Balor shrugged. "All I remember is driving into the city limits and my car dying. Then there was this bright light and the next thing I know, I'm crawling out of the desert…and I could do this," Balor answered as he Quicksilvered his head.

"Damn. It took me longer to learn how to do that," Darien said, as the Quicksilver fell from Balor's head.

Hobbes glanced at Balor. "Well Mr. Feris…"

"Balor. Just call me Balor," he said as he ran a hand over the back of his neck and let out a small moan.

"Hey, you okay there, man?" asked Darien, as his worried eyes flicked to Hobbes'.

Balor nodded. "That old mattress is hell on my back. How can you two help me?"

"The agency that we work for, originally developed the gland that was implanted into your brain..." Hobbes started.

"A gland? My doctor said it was a tumor. An inoperable one," Balor interrupted his eyes widening.

"We have a way to remove the gland, that would cause you no further damage," Hobbes continued, glancing at the questioning gaze Darien shot him.

"But why? Why me?"

"We don't know. Soon we'll be able to figure out who did this and we'll get em."

"Okay well Balor, we need to take you back to our office in San Diego. There is someone there who can help you," Darien said

Hobbes turned and pointed at the box covered snake, "By the way, is that creepy crawly yours?"

Balor nodded.

"Does he always get so close to strangers?" asked Hobbes.

Balor shook his head. "Yep, he's a total people person. I am about to get rid of him though. He goes through rats like you wouldn't believe," Balor said as he stood up. "The damn thing cost me an arm and a leg, and no one wants him. Vet says that I should donate him to a zoo."

Hobbes slowly lifted up the box and petted the snake. "Hey buddy, how's it going?"

Slowly the snake uncoiled and began to crawl gently across Hobbes' arm.

"Hey Crocodile Hunter, if you're not too busy making new friends, I'd say it's time we get a move on back to San Diego," said Darien.

"Yeah, let me just get this guy settled," said Hobbes as he put the snake back in the box and headed for the door. "You two coming?"

Balor and Darien both nodded.

"Well let's go," Hobbes urged impatiently.

Balor gave Darien a curious glance. "Is he always like that?"

Darien smiled. "It takes a little getting used to, but he's cool, I promise you."

"Right," Balor said as he followed Darien out the door.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The drive back to San Diego was much more subdued then the ride to Roswell had been. Darien and Hobbes took turns driving and sleeping while Balor mostly stayed to himself in the back, talking to himself and trying to stretch out his back and neck. As they finally neared the San Diego city limits hours later with Hobbes at the helm and Darien in the passenger's seat, Balor began to moan in agony.

"Got a problem back there, man?" Hobbes asked looking back in the rearview mirror.

"I just got this awful headache. It keeps coming in waves, right at the back of my head," Balor answered, rubbing his neck.

Darien and Hobbes looked at each other, both knowing what was coming next. Hobbes stepped on the gas, as Darien climbed into the back of the van with Balor.

"Hey, Balor," said Darien.

Balor's head rolled to the side and he groaned.

"Balor, come on man," said Darien taking Balor's face in his hands and turning him so he was looking him in the eyes. "Look, picture the headache as a person who's standing at the backdoor of your brain. Now pretend like this person is your worst enemy, and you want to close the door on him, no matter how hard he pounds."

Balor closed his eyes and lowered his head. He started taking slow deep breaths as his hand still fumbled at the back of his neck.

"Okay. It's working. I think," Balor said keeping his head down and dropping his hand to his lap. Slowly he raised his head, his eyes still closed. "I'm alright, now."

As Balor opened his eyes and gazed at Darien. Balor's eyes bore into Darien's, causing him to look away.

"Um, Hobbes," Darien stuttered.

"Yea Fawkes?" asked Hobbes turning around to glance back at the matter at hand.

"You notice anything familiar?" asked Darien motioning to Balor's face.

Hobbes looked at the guy's eyes, the prevalent red veins of impending Quicksilver Madness beginning to show. "Aw, crap."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

As Claire sat at her computer, once again working on a way to remove Darien's gland, she contemplated the idea that someone had recovered enough of her research to reproduce the gland. There were so many people out there that knew about the project and had tried mercilessly to get the information that was only here in this computer. She considered the suspects. There was Stark: she knew that he wanted the power of invisibility as was evident by the invisible locusts. Next there was the SWRB. Though their research lab had been destroyed by Gaither, she had an awful feeling that another No Name could have taken over command and if the stolen data on the project had been downloaded to a remote location, it might be possible for them to have created a new gland. And of course there was Arnaud. No one knew where he had gone when he escaped from Darien and Bobby in Mexico, but he was sure to pop back into their lives at some point. There were so many other possible suspects: Dr. Rendell, the doctors who had worked on the gland extracted from Arnuad by Chrysalis, the Chinese, and probably countless others.

As she continued mapping the progression of the gland's tendrils into Darien's cerebral cortex, she heard a commotion coming from outside the solid steel door of the Keep. As the doors swooshed opened, Claire's eyes widened in surprise at the sight of Darien and Bobby struggling with their own captive but at least leading him into the Keep somehow.

"Keep, the tranq gun!" Hobbes hollered, before Balor threw him into the wall.

As Claire searched for the tranquilizer gun, Hobbes climbed back to his feet and tried to help Darien control Balor. Once again, Balor reared his body and this time threw Darien to the ground. As Darien slid across the floor, colliding with a table containing a new experiment, Hobbes wrestled with Balor. Darien jumped up, oblivious to the broken beakers and pools of liquid on the floor. As Darien dove at Balor's midsection, missing him completely, the man once again threw Hobbes off of him. Hobbes flew across the room, landing under the lab table that contained Lucinda, the newly acquired Jasmine, and Claire's other animals, knocking all the glass food containers to the floor.

Claire grabbed the gun from her desk drawer, as Balor stood and approached her. When he stalked towards her, Claire loaded the weapon, raising her arm and aiming at his pectoral muscle. Moving quicker than she had anticipated, Balor came within five feet of her, Darien and Hobbes coming up behind him. As Darien and Hobbes dove for the man, Claire looked into his eyes, saw the prominent red veins, and quickly took her shot. Darien and Hobbes tackled Balor as the tranquilizer dart hit his chest, and the four wound up in a heap with Claire at the bottom.

They all lay on the floor for a moment, trying to catch their breath and avoid getting cut to tatters by the broken glass from the fallen equipment.

Darien blew out a deep breath that he had not realized he was holding, and then eyed Hobbes and Claire with a disbelieving look on his face, "Was I this bad?"

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien stared through the observation window at a straight-jacketed Balor, idling in the corner of the padded room. The bald, sunburned man slowly raised his head, turning to look into the mirror. Standing up, he struggled to walk, glowering at the two-way mirror, knowing he was being watched.

Balor opened his mouth to say something but instead stood there opened-mouthed. He clicked his tongue,

blinked his searing red eyes, and pressed his lips into a firm line.

Seconds later, he abruptly opened his mouth again, screaming, "I WAS ABDUCTED. THESE LITTLE GREY MEN TOOK ME UP IN THEIR SHIP AND OPERATED ON ME. NOW, I CAN GO INVISIBLE!"

Balor stood silently staring at the mirror, as his face twisted from disbelief to understanding, "IT'S YOU!!! YOU DID THIS! YOU AND THE ALIENS! WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME? LEAVE ME ALONE!"

As Darien turned to face Hobbes, Claire, and the Official, Eberts walked into the observation room, carrying a thick folder.

"Sir, I have acquired Mr. Feris' criminal record." said Eberts opening the folder, as the Official turned off the speakers. "Mr. Feris has been arrested over 15 times in the past 10 years for crimes ranging from breaking and entering to drug trafficking and murder. But every single charge has been dropped due to lack of evidence or the mysterious disappearances of witnesses. He is the prime suspect in a car bombing in South Texas, which occurred five weeks ago, the night before he disappeared. One of the state's leading drug dealers was found burnt to a crisp."

"Sounds rather familiar," the Official muttered under his breath.

"Oh no, you're not even gonna compare him to me," Darien said, astonished. "This man is a murderer and a drug dealer. There is no comparison."

"No. But you were both criminals," Eberts piped in.

"Shut up, Eberts," answered Claire, Hobbes, and Darien in unison.

"Stop. What I am saying is that we have a man with a lurid background that now has no control over himself," the Official barked as the group turned to avoid his glare.

"Doctor, is there some way to stop him?" The Official asked, looking at the crazed man, who was still screaming.

"I am fairly sure that whoever developed this gland knew nothing about the Quicksilver Madness, therefore they used the genetic code for the gland that Arnaud had tampered with," Claire answered, referring to her notes. "I should be able to have the suicide gene therapy ready within the next day. Though I have doubts about whether it will work on him the way it did for Darien."

"How long till he reaches Stage Five?" asked Darien, looking back at a raging Balor.

"If there is a Stage Five, he should be there within a few days, but that's really just a guess. There are too many variables for an accurate prediction."

Slowly the group filed out of the observation room, leaving the Official staring downheartedly at the man bound within. Darien wandered around The Agency, waiting for a new lead. Hobbes, on the other hand, followed Claire to the Keep. Keeping his distance, Hobbes watched Claire swipe her card, walk into the Keep and gasp at the tank sitting on her computer chair. She spun around, staring out the door, as Hobbes stepped into view.

"Bobby, what's this?" she asked as he walked nervously into the Keep.

Hobbes shrugged his shoulders shyly. "Aww, nothing. I found it at Feris' house and figured you would give it a great home," he shuffled his feet, barely looking at her.

"He is beautiful," Claire said as she pulled the small albino python out of the tank. "It's just a baby. Hey, sweetheart," she mumbled, nuzzling the snake. "What is his name?"

"Don't know. What about Hobbes?" he answered fiddling nervously with random things on Claire's desk.

"Bobby, I already had a pet named Hobbes," she said smiling at him.

"Yea, but Fawkes' rat killed him." Claire nuzzled the snake, gently lifting up his tail.

"What are you doing, Keep?" Hobbes asked his brow furrowing.

"Checking his sex. His spurs. That's how you tell."

"So?"

"It's a boy. How about Brian? That seems like a good little boy's name," she said, nuzzling the snake again as his tail curled around her wrist. "Yes, baby, this is my little Brian."

Claire moved over to Hobbes and placed a hand on his arm, "Thank you, Bobby. He is a beautiful little boy," she said, leaning in and pecking Hobbes on the cheek.

"Aww, Keepy. It's nothing," Hobbes answered quickly turning and walking out the door, trying to control the blush rising to his cheeks.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

As Darien walked down the halls, he came to the corner where the real Eberts and the fake Eberts, who was really Arnaud, had come face to face. As he continued walking, he came to the place where that Swiss-Miss Mother had blown up the cell he had been in and escaped the last time he'd been in the Agency. He leaned against the wall and slowly placed his hand on the back of his neck, feeling the scar that had started all this crap. Everything had been such a mess since Kevin had gotten him out of jail. With all of Kevin's vision, he wasn't able to see what Arnaud had done to the gland. Now an innocent man was restrained in a locked room, going crazier by the minute. Well, not so innocent...

Eventually Darien wandered back to the office he shared with Hobbes and poked his head in, "You found anything yet, partner?"

Hobbes looked up from the pad of notes that he was perusing and said, "I think so. One of my sources says that he knows a guy who 'distributes' stolen medical equipment. He says they recently sold a large supply to some guy in the Middle of Nowhere, New Mexico."

"Looks like we got a lead," Darien said, dropping into the seat in front of Hobbes.

"Maybe. My guy is trying to get in touch with his guy. He can't find him anywhere," Hobbes said as his phone rang. "Hobbes. Yeah... alright..."

Hobbes scribbled an address down as he hung up the phone, "This guy's address is just outside of the city, in Mission Beach. Let's go."

Darien stood up as Hobbes grabbed his jacket and an extra clip of bullets from his desk. A second later, they were out the door.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Claire had been running around the lab for the past three hours since Darien and Bobby had left, busily working on the suicide gene for Balor. She was sure that whoever had re-created the gland knew nothing about Arnaud's little fail-safe, so the suicide gene that had worked on Darien had a good chance of working on Balor, also. As she filled the syringe she wondered if this was the right choice. Madness was a horrible consequence of Arnaud's evil mind. But Balor was a violent criminal, who would find invisibility very useful in his line of work. But it was not her decision, so she capped the needle and proceeded to the padded room.

As she walked to the door, the guard nodded, unlocked the door, and said, "He's out like a light. Been that way for the past half-hour."

Claire carefully walked in, with the guard following her. As she approached Balor, she signaled the guard to stop a few paces behind the elevated mattress that Balor was curled up on.

Claire removed the syringe from her lavender lab jacket, slipping the needle cap off as she went. She kneeled down on the mattress and pulled at the buckles of the straightjacket. As she slid the sleeve of the jacket off of Balor's arm and moved the needle into position, he suddenly jerked from her grasp, throwing her to the floor and bolted for the door, knocking out the guard as he went. For an instant he turned and looked at the guard's unconscious body as Claire gazed up at him. She trembled as he looked down at her with his now piercing silver eyes and grinned menacingly. An instant later, Quicksilver covered his body and he ran out the door.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"So, I am guessing this is where this guy lives?" Darien asked as he disabled a pen to pop the padlock on the six-foot-high fence that surrounded the address Hobbes' source had provided them, an old warehouse, which appeared to be deserted. "Why do these guys always live in warehouses?"

"You live in an old warehouse," Hobbes said, as Darien fiddled with the lock for a second before it popped open.

"No, a loft."

"Loft, warehouse. What's the difference?"

"Mine was designed to be a loft," Darien said as he removed the chain and pushed open the gate.

"No, actually it was a warehouse in the '50s. Some guys just bought it and cleaned it up," Hobbes responded, as he walked into the yard, checking the windows.

"Yeah, your point being?"

"That you live in a warehouse, too. It's all relative."

Darien ran to catch up with Hobbes, as he asked, "Relative to what?"

"Everything."

After nearly three hours of inspecting the completely deserted warehouse, Hobbes met up with Darien. They walked out of the building with not a single speck of evidence to connect the guy selling medical equipment to Balor, or anyone else they had for a suspect. As they headed back to Golda, Darien strolled from the building. Hobbes hurried, not wanting to be away if anything happened. As he approached the van, his cell phone rang. He dragged the cell phone out of his pocket, answering on the third ring.

"Hobbes," he stated matter of factly. "Yes, Sir... 30 minutes max... Yes, sir."

As Hobbes flipped the phone closed, he sighed angrily and motioned to Darien to catch up.

"Come on, Fawkes. We're outta here," he hollered across the distance.

Darien came ambling across the empty parking lot, looking at Hobbes, curiously.

"What's up?" he said as they walked towards Golda.

"Feris escaped. Claire was in the process of giving him the gene therapy, and Balor wigged out and escaped," Hobbes answered, fuming more with every word as they climbed into Golda. "He was Stage Five."

Darien and Hobbes made it back to The Agency in record time, 10 minutes. For the entire trip, neither of them said a word; they were both again in their own worlds as they flew down the busy city streets.

Darien contemplated how Balor must feel in Stage Five. For him, all he wanted to do in Stage Four was wreak havoc, and he had no murderous tendencies. But Stage Five changed that. The last time Darien had been in Stage Five madness, he had nearly destroyed Haskill Park, tormenting the people spending their free time there. He had then gone into the church and totally disrupted a mob boss's funeral, stealing his Rolex and scaring the entire "family". And he had nearly killed the one man who his brother had really trusted.

The feeling of Stage Five for him was completely surreal. Everything felt like a dream, where he knew what he was doing was bad but he just couldn't control himself enough to do anything about it. In Stage Five a little bit of the real Darien was still there, just enough so that he could see and remember everything he had done, though not clearly or right away. But not enough to stop his altered id from hurting or maybe even killing, though thankfully that danger would never come again.

To Darien Stage Five was a release, but to Balor he imagined it must be heaven. A place where whatever he did was right and justified. Where a man with no conscience could rule. What Balor would do, no one knew; only time would tell.

It was hard for Darien to picture anyone else going through what he had for the past two years, but seeing the look on Hobbes' face, he knew that it was the same reaction Hobbes had had both times Darien had been in Stage Five. Simply, 'Aw, Crap!'. Even though Hobbes had been in Stage Five when Claire had experimented with her new counteragent, he still didn't experienced the same thing that Darien had.

Hobbes, on the other hand, was feeling no sympathy for Balor. That man had made him drive nearly 30 hours in a row to a remote desert in the sticks of New Mexico. Balor had jeopardized not only his own life, but he had also jeopardized Hobbes', his partner's, and Claire's. In Hobbes' mind's eye he could see himself approaching Balor, Stage Five Madness or not, and wondered who would last longer: a gland toting lunatic or a crazed man like himself, defending everyone he held dear.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Four

 

As Golda approached San Diego, Hobbes flipped on the police scanner that had been part of Golda's upgrading. The best way for them to find a lunatic would be to listen in on the police reports. As they entered the city limits, a call came through the scanner.

"235 to dispatch," the cop stated.

"Dispatch. Go ahead, 235," the operator at the station responded.

"Dispatch. I've just detained a possible drunk and disorderly. I cannot confirm intoxication with breath-a-lizer or physical impairment test. Suspect is highly agitated, violent, and will not respond. Possible drug use, from the condition of his eyes."

"Condition of his eyes? 235, please clarify."

"Suspect's eyes are completely sliver. Permission to bring to holding, by show of force?"

After a few seconds, the operator answered, "Permission granted. Dispatch out."

"10-4. 235 out."

Darien and Hobbes just looked at each other. Both knew that it was Balor, but neither of them wanted to admit that they didn't want to go to the city jail to try and bail him out. Neither one could figure out any other way to spring him without causing a commotion.

Walking into this station was one of the last things that Darien wanted to do. Nearly a year ago, after a botched mission, Darien ended up in this exact station, with no idea who he was or how he could turn invisible. He remembered walking towards the building, practicing what he was going to say, "Hi, My name is Darien Fawkes, I think. Someone is trying to kill me and... and I can turn invisible." He ended up being locked in a holding room, after the officers looked up his record and discovered he was supposed to be spending the rest of his life in prison. As Darien and Hobbes walked in, he had a sinking feeling that things were going to end up the same way. Approaching the counter, Darien saw with a sinking sensation the same officer as the last time he had been there.

"Sergeant Matt Thompson. Good to see you again," Hobbes said as he stretched out his hand, to the man behind the counter.

"Agent Hobbes, and look, our escaped con, Darien Fawkes. To what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked, glaring at both of them and ignoring Hobbes' hand.

"Sergeant Thompson, as I told you last time, Fawkes here is an agent of the US Government. That rap sheet was his cover, which you and your fellow men in blue decided to try and blow."

"So, that's why he was all over AOL a few years ago," Sergeant Thompson said, looking squarely at Darien. "Yea, I did some checking up on you, after you disappeared."

Hobbes snorted, "You wouldn't be able to check yourself out of a mental hospital if you were at the entrance."

"Thompson, what is going on here," the officier's superior said, placing a warning hand on Thompson's shoulder.

"Don't know. These *agents* won't say," Thompson said, settling back in his chair.

"Detective Sheridan. What can I do for you?" the older man said, looking from Hobbes to Darien.

"Agent Bobby Hobbes," Hobbes answered, flipping out his badge. "The US Government has informed us that you have apprehended one of our escaped prisoners, a Mr. Balor Feris. You may know him only by looks. Has a genetic disorder that has colored his eyes silver and makes him kinda crazy, if he doesn't receive his meds."

"Do you have proof?"

"Sir, how would we know that you had him here and that his eyes were silver unless he was ours?"

The older officer nodded in understanding and motioned for Thompson to take Hobbes and Darien to Balor. Thompson grudgingly led them to the exact same holding cell that Darien had once been in; none of them saw Balor.

"Where the hell did he go?" Thompson yelled, pulling out his keys and heading for the door.

"Wait, hold on," Darien answered, putting on his sunglasses and Quicksilvering his eyes. "He's in there. Hobbes, give me the cuffs and I'll get him."

"You sure, my friend?" Hobbes asked, getting the cuffs out of his pocket and handing them to Darien.

"Slowly open the door a crack and let me in. Hobbes, you know what to do," Darien said, prompting Hobbes to keep the cop busy.

Darien entered the room, looking at a shimmering Balor who was curled up in a ball in the corner. As Hobbes saw Darien nod, he began his part.

"So, Sergeant Matt, arrest any interesting city wide criminals?" Hobbes asked, moving so that Thompson had to turn his back to the holding room to face him.

"Don't start that crap with me, Hobbes. I have my share of criminals to catch," Thompson hissed glaring at Hobbes. "What about you? What criminals have you caught with Fish and Game?"

"Oh, nothing much, just caught a dirty politician, a couple of terrorists, a scientist trying to murder people with imported poisons from endangered animals, and a few mobsters, and that's only been in the past two months. All in a days work," Hobbes said, glancing over the officer's shoulder as Balor came into view and Darien secured the cuffs on him.

"Aw, hell, federal arrest is nothing. Local arrests are what keep our streets clean. Putting you and your partner under arrest would just take two more loonies off the streets."

"And putting away a desk riding police jockey like you would save our citizens from being scared to walk the streets," Hobbes said as he opened the door and Darien walked a somber, silver-eyed Balor out of the holding room. "See, told ya, no problem. Thanks for you help, Sergeant Matt."

As the oddly matched threesome walked down the hall, the sound of Thompson cursing followed.

Hobbes quickly filled out the appropriate paperwork as Darien stood back, holding Balor. They then walked Balor out to Golda and secured him in the back. As Hobbes, Darien and Balor returned to the Harding Building, the two agents were in much better moods.

"Yes, but Peter Parker is smart, Clark Kent is an idiot. Besides, can he sense trouble? I think not, my friend," Darien responded, glancing back at Balor.

"But he's the man of steel," Hobbes said, turning left on a red light as a car nearly missed Golda.

"Hell, even Batman beats Superman."

"No way."

"Even Wonder Woman beats Superman."

"Never," Hobbes answered, glaring in Darien's direction.

"Even Daredevil could beat Superman."

"Not in this lifetime. Not in any lifetime."

"If you put them in a room together, they could beat Superman," Darien said, nodding his head vigorously.

"I don't think so, my friend," Hobbes answered, looking back at Balor, who if he hadn't already been crazy was going to be close to it after this conversation.

"Well, I do."

"And that makes you right?" Hobbes snorted as he pulled into the back parking lot of the Harding Building.

"Of course," Darien answered, moving to the back, sliding open the door, and pushing Balor to the ground.

"What the hell was that for?" Balor hissed, baring his teeth and glaring up at them with his cold silver eyes.

"Hobbes, now I understand why you couldn't get used to that," Darien said, looking at Balor's eyes as Hobbes helped pull him to his feet.

As they led him down the hall to the Keep, Hobbes continued on, "That's a traumatizing song. When the wind blows, that cradle is going down, my friend, with you in it."

"First of all, why am I in a cradle?" yelled Darien over Balor's loud moans.

"'Cause you're a baby."

"No, I'm not."

"In the rhyme you are," Hobbes replied, hoisting Balor up by his folded right arm and causing another anguished moan.

"Not me, someone's baby."

"Well..."

"SECOND of all, it's a nursery rhyme!" Darien said with mock annoyance in his voice.

"It scared me as a kid," Hobbes said a little too seriously.

"You were crazy then too?" Darien asked, pulling on Balor's left arm, causing Balor to stop and moan in pain.

"That's just hurtful," Hobbes said as he swiped Darien's card through the key pad at the Keep.

Darien and Hobbes deposited the moaning Balor on the demented dentist chair as Claire hurriedly rounded the corner. Darien and Hobbes had had their fun. Verbally torturing Balor had relieved some of their stress, but just enough for them to want to have some reason to hate him again, not to feel sorry for him.

"Bloody hell. I thought it was one of you," she said as she checked Balor's vitals. "Well, at least you got him here in one piece, however damaged he may be."

Minutes later Claire injected Balor with his own gene therapy, and instantly he passed out. After checking his eyes for signs of Quicksilver Madness, Claire waved a packet of smelling salts under his nose, causing him to jerk awake.

Balor, slowly turned his head, from a satisfied looking Claire to Darien and Hobbes. His eyes were shifty and his jaw had begun to tremble.

"Where am I?" he asked, trying to move his arms in an attempt to get comfortable on the chair.

"You're in San Diego, at a government agency," Claire began. "These two agents brought you here yesterday, after we discovered your existence."

"What? My existence?" Balor asked as sweat began to bead up on his brow.

"Guys, guys. Let me get this one. Okay?" Darien said as he pulled the cuff keys out of his pocket and re-cuffed Balor's hands in front of him.

Claire and Hobbes slowly walked out of the room as Darien pulled a chair up, sat, and stared at Balor.

"Okay, man. Here's the deal. Someone -- not aliens, but someone trying to make you think they were aliens-- kidnapped you and put a bio-synthetic gland in your brain," Darien said as Balor looked up wide-eyed. "This gland makes this stuff called Quicksilver. The Quicksilver comes out of the, uh, pores in your body and covers you like Saran Wrap. It sort of, uh, bends the light around your body, making you turn invisible. You remember all that?"

Balor stared unblinking at Darien.

"My brother designed the gland and implanted it in my head. Somehow one of our enemies got enough of my brother's research to design a new gland, which they put in you."

"So this is your brother's fault?"

"No, my brother wanted to save the world. But some of the people we have as suspects want to use his invention to try and destroy it," Darien said, standing up. "There is just one side effect. The Quicksilver works as a, um, cerebral, uh, cerebral disinhibitor, kinda like heroin, maybe acid, I don't know all that drug stuff. When too much of the toxin that comes with the Quicksilver builds up in your bloodstream you go into a condition called Quicksilver Madness. Basically you turn into a walking id, no self-control... no conscience."

"Madness? Huh? Why would someone make this?"

"Don't ask me. But that isn't the point. We can stop it."

"So, you have this gland and this madness too?"

"Yes and no. The Kee... uh, the Doctor was able to cure my madness."

"So, cure mine!"

"We were in the process of doing that when you bolted from the lab," Darien said pointedly.

"So, there is nothing you can do?"

"The Doctor created a gene therapy for you, kinda like the one she used on me. That should cure you of the madness," Darien said, looking at the relieved man that could have been controlled by the madness like he had been.

As Balor and Darien continued to talk, Claire and Hobbes proceeded to the Official's office. Walking in the door, they were greeted by a rare sight, Eberts standing behind the Official as they stared at a small television screen.

"I'm leaving you..." the man on the television said.

"Whatcha watchin'?" Hobbes asked, leaning over the television as Eberts clicked it off.

"Six Feet Under," Eberts stuttered, as the Official, responded, "Death of a Salesman."

"Sounds more like Temptation Island to me," Hobbes observed.

"Doctor, how is he?" the Official asked, looking apprehensively at Claire.

"I've administered the gene therapy, and so far it appears to be working. His current bout of Quicksilver Madness has resolved. Only time will tell whether the therapy integrates into his gland's genetic code permanently," she started, taking a seat in front of his desk. "But, Sir. A violent criminal like Balor should not have that gland, especially without the control of QSM. It needs to be removed, before he does something serious."

"But, I thought you couldn't extract the gland?" Hobbes asked, looking towards Claire pensively.

"In Darien, I still can't. The gland has attached itself to too many different sections of his brain. But I believe that we have caught Balor in enough time that I can safely remove it. It looks like whoever put the gland in his brain didn't give him enough time to recover after the surgery, and therefore some of the gland structure has not fully integrated into Balor's brain yet. It might allow me a safe way to remove the gland from his head."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Back in the Keep, Darien had fully explained the gland, the Quicksilver Madness and even his experiences over the past few years. But Balor was still uneasy.

"So, Balor Feris, huh? That's an interesting name? What is it, English?" Darien asked, once again taking a seat in front of the man and lounging across the chair.

"Well, Balor is Druid actually. He was the Druid god of death. One look in his eyes would kill you. Kind of ironic now... isn't it?" Balor answered, lying back in the demented dentist chair.

"A bit."

"And Feris is Latin for thief. Guess it ran in my family," he said looking up at the agent. "So, what about you? Darien Fawkes? What does that mean?"

"Um, Darien is French... um... French Canadian, actually. I think it means wealthy gift," Darien answered sheepishly. "And Fawkes is British, meaning sly like a fox."

"A little bit ironic there too, don't you think?"

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

As Darien and Balor continued to talk, Claire and the Official were having a talk of their own. Namely, what to do about Balor and the gland.

"There are only two options. Either Feris stays here at the Agency, forever, with the gland intact or the gland is removed completely," the Official barked.

"But, Sir. Feris is a violent criminal. You can't just put him back on the streets, especially with the knowledge he has gained," Hobbes interrupted.

"I never said he would be put back on the street. Those are our options. One or the other. You decide, Doctor."

"Chief, what if we turn him over to the feds?" Hobbes asked, standing up and pacing around the office.

"They have nothing that they could hold him for. I've checked," Eberts piped in.

Claire sighed heavily. "We can't put Balor back on the streets."

"Doctor, we won't. You need to make a choice," The Official barked. "You know my position on this. But if removal will damage the gland, he must stay, until you can take it out securing its safety. That is the end of it."

Claire put her hands on her hips and sighed heavily. "We remove it," she said uneasily.

The Official chuckled. "Good. Be ready to ship out in a half-hour. I'll alert the hospital." He looked at Hobbes. "We'll all be accompanying Mr. Feris to the hospital, so inform Fawkes."

"Yes, sir," Hobbes said, heading for the door.

Claire rolled her eyes and barged out of the office after Hobbes, distraught over the no-win situation in whuch she and the rest of the Agency had been placed. Both choices were immoral, she thought, and just plain wrong. Balor could not be held against his will for something he had had no hand in; her only other option was to remove the gland no matter what consequences to his life existed.

"We have to let him go. Perhaps this experience will change him for the better," Claire said as they walked to the Keep.

"I love it when you're angry," Hobbes responded.

Claire stopped dead, turned and glared at Hobbes, "Bobby a man's entire life rests in our hands, and all you can do is tell me how good I look when I am angry?"

"I never said that. It's just my way of saying that I agree with you."

Claire spun on her heel and marched to the Keep. As she turned the corner and the clicking of her heels faded, Hobbes turned and continued to his own office, beaming like an idiot.

Darien left the Keep as Balor began to drift off to sleep. He had recuffed him to the dentist chair so that he would not escape again. Walking out of the lab, Darien knew that everything was about to change. Soon the Official would have his new gland. For the time being he was irreplaceable but one day another invisible agent would be around. They would probably do what they had originally planned and put it in a highly trained agent. But hopefully they would choose someone more like himself then like Simon Cole. Cole may have been a patriot, who gave his all for his country, and it was not his fault that he went insane from permanent invisibility. But when Darien had been Cole, he felt something that was beyond the Madness. Something in Cole was rotten. Darien didn't want someone like that to be able to do what he could.

And then who knew what would happen to him. The 'Fish might stick him down in Gaither's old cell until something could be done with him. Or they could send him to the Community to live out the rest of his miserable life. Even though the Community had made it pretty clear that they would never want him, Darien was sure the Official would be able to convince them to take him.

Darien entered the office he shared with Hobbes, causing his partner to turn down the volume of the mini TV he had smuggled in. Darien collapsed into a chair, dropping his head into his hands. Hobbes watched silently as Darien rubbed his temples and an exhausted moan escaped his lips. Slowly, Darien raised his head and craned his neck to see the television.

"Whatcha watching, Hobbesy?" Darien asked, scooting his chair over to see better.

"Some show called Couples. It's pretty funny. One of the guys looks a lot like you," Hobbes said, turning the set in Darien's direction and pointing to the screen. "See, that guy."

"Don't know whatcha talking about. His hair is awful. Way too short for him," Darien said, leaning back, his eyes glued to the set. "If he did something with it and got out of those stuffy suits and into something more comfortable, then maybe he would be as cool as me."

"No wonder your id had so much trouble controlling you. Your ego is bigger than this room," Hobbes mumbled chuckling to himself.

"Yup," Darien responded, laughing at his look-a-like on the television.

Hobbes checked his watch. "We ship out of here in 10 minutes. Taking Balor to Fort Leavitt to get the gland removed."

"Removed?" Darien gasped.

"Keep says she can take it out. Who knows if it will kill him or not?"

Darien nodded and bit his lower lip, "Lucky him."

Claire returned to the Keep and sat down at her computer, sighing deeply in anger after her discussion with the Official. She knew that keeping the gland would mean that one day there would be another vessel for it. But the short time that it took Balor to go to Stage Five madness was her biggest concern. He had progressed from Stage Three to Stage Five in less then 24 hours.

As she prepared to take Balor to Fort Leavitt for extraction, she thought about the psychological effects this would have on the not-so-innocent man. Being taken against your will was hard enough to get through. But then to be implanted with this horrid gland. Balor would either have to be a very strong person or have a very good psychologist, with the appropriate clearance, to help him through this.

When the group arrived at Fort Leavitt, the entire base seemed to be deserted. Two guards stood at the barricaded gate and two more stood inside the hospital, but there was no one else around. Balor was then taken to a private trauma room, where Claire would begin a series of tests to determine exactly what she needed to do to remove his gland. As Claire positioned the tranquilized Balor in the MRI, she knew that this would change many things at the Agency, including her research to remove Darien's gland. But how would Darien be able to handle another invisible agent? How would the Official handle Darien, if he had a real invisible agent to utilize? Claire shook the thought from her head and moved to the controls, all the while not knowing that Balor had awakened. As she began the test, Balor's eyes popped open, revealing extremely bloodshot eyes, a jump straight from normality to Stage Four madness.

As Darien walked into the trauma room, Claire was studying the three-dimensional model produced by the MRI of Balor's head.

"So, how's it looking, Claire?" Darien asked looking over his Keeper's shoulder at the MRI screen.

"So far, the gland seems to be removable. But I can't be completely sure till I go in," Claire answered, jotting down a few notes. "You can go in and talk to him. He should be awake, now."

As Claire left the lab, Darien walked up to the MRI bed, quietly calling, "Balor, you awake, man?"

Balor sat up and swung his legs off of the bed, his back facing Darien, as he said, "Yes, I'm up, Darien."

"Hey man. I just wanted to see how you're handling all of this," Darien said, placing his hand on Balor's shoulder.

"I am quite fine, Darien," Balor said in a slow and menacing voice. "I assure you."

Slowly, Darien's face changed. His eyes darkened, and his lips dropped into a frown. Even more slowly he moved his hand from Balor's shoulder and walked around the bed, studying Balor's face. The other man looked completely at ease. A small smile played on his lips, as every muscle relaxed completely. His brow was smooth, not furrowed like a man who was about to have brain surgery. And his eyes were loosely closed.

As Darien stopped in front of him, Balor's lids snapped open, revealing the now too familiar blood shot eyes. For a second, the two men stared at each other. The past and the future of the gland collided through their gaze. Instantly Balor lunged towards the surgical tools, grabbing a scalpel, and heading towards Darien.

Darien tried to defend himself, bringing all of his new skills to bear, but Balor had his own training and years of experience. He caught Darien's left arm and pulled it high up on his back; Darien howled in pain. But the next instant, the sharp blade of the scalpel dug into Darien's throat. He hissed in pain. Balor pushed Darien out of the empty lab, careful not to dig the scalpel into Darien's throat and hit anything important. He couldn't afford to lose his hostage and blow his chance of getting out.

As they walked down the hall, Balor began screaming, "YOU ALL WERE THE BASTARDS THAT DID THIS TO ME."

"Man, I told you. It wasn't us," Darien said as Balor dragged him further down the hall. "We're trying to save you."

"NO, YOU'RE THE ONES THAT RUINED MY LIFE!" Balor hollered as Claire, Hobbes, Eberts and the Official came hurrying down the hall. "YOU SAID YOU COULD FIX THIS THING! LIAR!"

"Guys, some help here," Darien pleaded.

"Son, you better stop this now. We don't want to hurt you," the Official said as he motioned for Balor to drop the scalpel.

"Of course you do! You want to cut me open," he answered, calming down.

"Feris, there are two guards at the door who don't care why you are doing this. They will shoot you if you try and leave the building with Fawkes like this," Hobbes commented, removing his gun from its holster.

"Then they will take both of us, won't they?" Balor said, holding Darien's arm tighter.

"Just let him go, man. You don't want him," Hobbes answered, taking a step towards them and raising his gun.

"Don't come any closer. I WILL SLIT HIS THROAT!"

Slowly the group backed away, letting Balor and Darien pass. As the two made their way down the hall and around the corner, the last words out of Darien's mouth were, "GUYS? HELP!"

Quicksilvering as they went, Balor pushed Darien out of the main doors, past the guards. As they walked past them, Balor grabbed one of their guns and proceeded to point the gun at Darien's back. "Run!" he urged as he pushed him towards the gate that lead into the hospital.

Darien groaned out loud and started jogging, his vision starting to swim in and out. Once they got past the gate, Balor let the Quicksilver drop and pushed Darien onto the sidewalk that lined the streets. Balor darted out into the street with Darien in tow. They barely avoided being hit by the stream of cars traveling down the street. As one car stopped right before them, Balor ripped open the door and pulled the confused driver out into the road. Pulling Darien in, Balor made his way to the passenger seat, forcing Darien into the driver's seat.

As Hobbes and the two armed guards ran out of the gate, they saw the car door close and heard Balor yell, "DRIVE THIS CAR, OR I WILL KILL YOU."

Inside the car, Darien sat calmly, with the scalpel still jutting out of his throat and the gun pointed at his head. He felt the slow wave of unconsciousness rolling over him.

"I can't," he gasped, trying to stay conscious.

"DRIVE!"

Seconds later, Darien began to sway. Balor noticed his passenger's impending faint and quickly pulled the scalpel out of his throat. Flipping up his gun, Balor held the muzzle and bashed the grip into Darien's skull. With a loud crack, Darien fell back against the seat, unconscious. Balor then reached over him, opened the door, and in one swift movement pushed Darien out into the moving traffic.

"DARIEN!" Hobbes yelled when he saw his partner was about to be creamed by a pick-up truck. As Balor put the car into gear and sped off, Hobbes dashed out into the street and dragged Darien out of the way just in time. When he was sure his partner was safe, he and the other guards started firing at Balor's car, hoping to at least hit a tire. But as the car rapidly turned a corner, they knew that Balor was gone.

Hobbes threw his gun to the ground in disgust and then knelt down beside his fallen partner. "Damn it, Fawkes," he muttered as he tore off his coat and used it to staunch the blood flowing from Darien's throat wound.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag

 

Slowly, Darien's eyes fluttered open, a small groan escaping from his lips. He realized he was lying on a gurney in the Keep. An IV was inserted into the back of his left hand, slowly pumping in a large bag of blood. As he looked down, he saw that the blanket stopped at his waist and that his bare chest was covered with sticky heart monitor patches. He tried to raise his head, wincing at the sharp stabbing pain in the side of his neck. He raised his hand to his neck and felt the thick bandage.

"How are you feeling?" Claire asked, placing an ice pack on the large bump forming on his forehead.

"Like I was stabbed, cold-cocked, and thrown out of a moving car," Darien answered, painfully trying to sit up again.

"You look like hell," said Hobbes, walking towards him.

"Well, I'd hate to see what I look like when I'm feeling awful," Darien said as he slowly moved his IV-laden hand to his stomach. "So, did you..."

"Nope. He got away before we could get to him," Hobbes said, dropping his head.

"Oh, crap."

"Hey man, we'll get him soon," Hobbes said in a confident tone. He nodded towards the door. "I gotta go talk to the 'Fish. I'll be back soon," he said, dropping his hand for a low five with his partner.

"Thanks, Bobby," Darien said, slowly lowering his hand into Hobbes', smiling up weakly.

Hobbes stared at Darien with brotherly concern, nodding slightly as he turned and left. Claire pulled up a chair next to Darien, "How are you really feeling?" she asked, checking his pulse.

"Like hell. But I'll be okay," Darien said, resting his head on the gurney. "So, did you find out anything about his gland, before..."

"Yes. Balor's gland hadn't implanted itself into the brain as much as yours had, so there was a very high chance that he would have survived the extraction. But the thing that was bloody odd was that his Quicksilver Madness must have been a completely different code then yours. Someone had to have changed Arnaud's code for the madness. That's the only explanation that I can think of for why the gene therapy didn't work."

"I figured as much. Hopefully whoever did this to him gets him back. Balor could be a huge problem in Stage Five," Darien said as his eyes started to droop.

"Get some sleep, you've been through a lot the past couple of days," Claire said as she pulled a blanket up over his chest.

Darien nodded his head slightly and then relaxed against the gurney, quickly drifting into a dreamless sleep.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The next night, a single man stood in the open desert, screaming at the cloudy sky, "WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH ME???? JUST TELL ME!"

Minutes later, a loud thumping sound could be heard coming from the distance. Balor spun around, facing the direction the sound came from. As he stood staring towards the mountains, a bright light beamed down on his frozen body. The light was so bright and the wind was whipping around him so violently that Balor fell to his knees, screaming in fear.

"LEAVE ME ALONE! TAKE THE DAMN GLAND AND LEAVE ME ALONE!" he yelled, his voice cracking with every syllable.

As the halo of light became bigger, the wind howled down, throwing him to the ground, blowing sand in every direction. Balor covered his silver eyes from the sand as he disappeared into the whirlwind.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Maybe Fox Mulder had it right when he hung up a poster in his office that said 'I want to believe.' Only I'm not sure what I really believe in anymore. Not aliens, that's for sure. But maybe that poster was more about hope than it was about little green men. If that's true, I want to believe that I will get this gland out of my head one day and live a normal life. But how can I possibly do that when I know some new schmuck will come along and endure the same kinds of hell I've gone through the past few years? I guessin the end, I want to believe that the gland starts and ends with me. But after meeting Balor Feris and witnessing firsthand the kind of torment he went through, I've realized that it's probably just wishful thinking. But then again, what would life be like if we all turned our backs on our own personal little green men? No life that I want to be a part of, that's for sure._

 

 

End

 


	6. No Woman is an Island (season 3 episode 6)

Episode Six

**No Woman is an Island**

 by mardel

With help from Nikki

 

Teaser:

_"No man is an island entire of its self, every man is a piece of the Continent a part of the Main." A guy called John Dunne said that a long time ago, but it still holds true, even for a woman._

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A small form dressed all in black crept across the grounds of a large Spanish colonial style building. Moving from shadow to shadow, it drew nearer to the side of the building, and attaching a video feed looping wire, a half-second later, a clear view of the area was replaying to the security office inside.

The figure scurried up the drainpipe attached to the south wall of the white stucco wall and slipped inside through a dormer window, hurrying down the hallway towards the target room, pausing to listen at the door for voices. Silence. Easing the door open, the figure slipped into the room and crossed to a large painting hanging on the fall wall. Footsteps sounded in the hall, and a man's voice, speaking in Spanish followed by a feminine giggle headed towards the room. The black-clad person quickly moved to the adjoining bathroom and closed the door.

Seconds later, the man to whom the voice belonged, and a young woman, entered the office and headed towards the couch near the picture. In the bathroom, the thief hastily opened the window, and balanced on a narrow ledge. Pulling off her mask, defeated, Alex Monroe breathed a tired sigh as she leaned against the building 30 feet from the ground. She moved several yards along the ledge then reached out and grabbed hold of the drainpipe, bracing her feet against the building. She shimmied down the pipe, removed the looping device, and ran for the brick wall that surrounded the property.

Jumping for a handhold on the top of the wall she climbed over. Alex headed for the black van she had parked on a side street near by. Climbing inside she slammed her head back against the seat, sighing as her hands began to shake. Her face tensed as her whole body began to shake involuntarily. Alex sucked in deep breaths, trying to calm herself, and the worst of the tremors subsided.

Eventually she pulled out her cell phone, punched in a number and waited for them to pick up. "Sir, I need to borrow them." she spoke into the phone. "Just one B&E. You do want me to do well when I'm on loan don't you?"

She sat rubbing her leg with her hand that wouldn't stop shaking as she received a response. "Yes, 10 a.m.. The Holman Square parking garage, bottom level," she answered, once again pausing for a response. "Thank you, Sir."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"I can't freaking believe this!" Bobby slammed Golda's door as he climbed into the van.

Darien was already in his usual spot in the passenger seat. He grinned at his partner. "What's the matter?"

Ever since Claire had given him the gene therapy to stop him from experiencing Quicksilver madness he found life much more entertaining.

Even Hobbes’ foibles amused him rather than grating on his nerves. "Do you remember when I made those modifications to Golda a few months ago?"

"Yeah." Darien had thought they seemed a bit James Bondish, but he'd helped Bobby, at least minimally, during the installation.

"I filled out six different requisition forms to get those improvements paid for before they were installed. Then I had to install all of them myself except for the armor. Now Eberts sends me a memo that states Golda will become an agency pool vehicle. Ever since her upgrade she's now considered an agency asset, and we aren't entitled to have sole use of the surveillance vehicle," Bobby informed his partner.

"That sucks. You made most of the modifications; you filled out all of the paper work. We should have first rights to her." Darien backed his friend up on this. He'd gotten used to Golda over the past two years. She might not be the best-looking vehicle, but she'd gotten them out of more jams than she’d gotten them into. And she had plenty of headroom too.

"Yeah, I told Eberts he could have her over my dead body." Bobby turned the ignition and pulled out into traffic. "Let 'em try and get their hands on my assigned Agency vehicle."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

::Cue Theme Music::

**There once was a tale about a guy who could turn invisible. I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me. OK, so here's how it works: There's this stuff called 'Quicksilver' that can bend light. My brother and some scientists made it into a synthetic gland, and that's where I came in. See, I was facing life in prison and they were looking for a human experiment. So we made a deal; they put the gland in my brain, and I walk free. The operation was a success... but that's when everything started to go wrong.**

::Music Fade Out::

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act One

 

Darien took a sip of his coffee and tried not to find the situation funny. Bobby got so upset about little things sometimes, but put him in a firefight and he was Mr. Cool-as-a-Cucumber.

"We're supposed to meet up with the contact at ten, aren't we?" Darien asked, since it was nearing that time.

"Yeah, I'll have us in place on time, partner, don't you worry." Bobby was already dodging in and out of traffic, speeding up, making lane changes every few minutes and generally driving like a stunt driver in a bad chase movie.

"So how come they can't tell us who we're meeting? I mean we all work for the same team, don't we?" Darien asked, just to keep Bobby's mind off the Golda situation.

"We may all play for the same team but if every other agency knew about your talents, the Fat Man wouldn't be able to keep you to himself."

"I'll never understand how you fit in at the Bureau. You aren't that arrogant or smarmy. They didn't seem to have a clue about Chrysalis, they dress like the guys from "Men in Black"... I'm glad to be back among the real people." Darien grinned like a fool and low-fived Bobby.

"Yeah, well they aren't the same as when I was there. They've allowed too many non-law types to join. Affirmative action may have gotten us a more diverse group of agents, but former English teachers doing fieldwork, that just doesn't jibe with security of the nation the way it was originally intended."

"You don't agree with female agents and minorities?" Darien hadn't thought Bobby was so close-minded. It startled him.

"I didn't say that," Hobbes disagreed. "Some of the best agents I’ve worked with were women. And I don't care what background you come from if you’re up to the task. But standards were lowered when affirmative action went in place. It’s the citizens who’re payin’ the price for that."

Darien considered this for a moment, thinking. "So was Monroe one of the new hires?"

"Monroe, now she's a good example. Best agent rating you can have. She's tough as nails and knows her spy craft. She wasn't one of my favorite people when she first came on board, but she's a good agent."

"I don't know, she was starting to grow on me, there, before the Fat Man sold her to the highest bidder." Darien admitted. "Now we hardly see her."

"Yeah, she was a little easier to work with towards the end, there. You never know when we’ll see her again." Bobby shrugged.

He pulled Golda into a parking garage and drove to the bottom level. "We're here, buddy. You might want to go see-through until I give you the all-clear," Bobby warned Darien as he opened his door and made sure his weapon was in place.

Bobby watched as Darien covered himself with Quicksilver and exited the van. He moved towards the far wall and kept his eye on his partner.

A small figure moved out of the shadows and approached Bobby. Hobbes shook his head and grinned, "I should have known. Speak of the devil, and here she is. I got this feeling I'd be seeing you again soon." Bobby extended a hand, offering to shake hands with her.

Alex Monroe had waiting in the garage, tugging at the neck of her black sweater that was too warm for the humid atmosphere of the garage. She still hadn't changed from the B&E, the night before. She looked exhausted, one of the few times Hobbes had ever been able to tell she was feeling the stress of her job.

She shook hands with Bobby. "Hobbes, where's Fawkes?"

"Hey, partner, come on over. Look who's here," Bobby said a little louder than usual, so Darien would be sure to hear him.

"Alex!" Fawkes materialized beside them as the Quicksilver flaked away.

"Hey, nice to see you," Darien hugged her in greeting, and she looked surprised by his welcoming embrace, lifting one hand to his back briefly in response.

Alex eyed Darien. He was as attractive as always, but he looked rested. Almost happy. It was amazing what having some control over your life again could do for your morale.

"I'm glad the Official let you meet me. I've run into problems with my current case. I could really use a hand on this." She sounded a little hesitant to ask for help, but then she'd sent for them so...

"Sure. Whatever you need." Darien grinned, cheerfully willing to let her off the hook, eager to help as always.

"I'm guessing you need Fawkes' talents both as a thief and as the inviso-boy," Bobby speculated sarcastically.

"Yes, but mostly the thief part, I think. I just tried ? and failed ? to obtain some documents from a very high security embassy. It's a long story. But after I got in, I found there were a few… security measures… I hadn’t known about. I'm going to need someone with some expertise in improvising to go in with me, and Hobbes, I could use some directional assistance from you on the outside. You seemed to have a real talent for reading the portable."

"Thanks." He hesitated, sarcasm falling away as he realized she was serious. "We'll do whatever we can to help." Bobby inclined his head to her in wordless apology.

"Great." She handed Bobby a slip of paper with an address. "If you'll meet me here, we can do this thing tonight. I'll have the equipment we need."

"Alex, is this really about your current assignment or does this have something to do with finding Stark and getting your son back?" Darien asked. Something about her stress level set off alarm bells in his devious thief's mind.

"I've been working for the Treasury Department since I saw you last. This is about a counterfeit case. Not so much about security, but important to the morale of the country," she replied and looked directly into his eyes.

"She's good." Darien grinned at her and exchanged glances with Bobby, then continued. "But we know you too well. Tell us the truth."

"We'll still help you, Monroe; we just want to know who we are up against," Bobby added.

Alex pulled off her black knit hat and ruffled her hand through her dark hair, releasing it from the bondage she had inflicted on it. "Alright I'll explain, but let's go somewhere else." She glanced around the dreary parking structure, shuddering slightly. "Is there room for me in the van?"

"Sure. Come on." Darien put a hand out to her, then remembered she didn't accept small offers of courtesy, considering them demeaning to her abilities and independence, and hesitated, though he didn't withdraw the hand.

Alex took a deep breath. She felt like her entire world was crashing down around her again. But she wasn't going to break, not in front of them, especially. Once she was in the van, she slipped off her black sweater. Under it, she was wearing a deep red French-cut tee shirt that showed off her figure.

Yet she seemed oblivious to the image she presented.

"Where to?" Bobby asked, glancing her way, but not staring.

"Can we go get some coffee?" Monroe asked wearily.

"You got it."

Darien helped her get the black sweater off and out of the way. "Are you really working for Treasury?" he wanted to know.

"Yes, and this started out exactly the way I told you. A smash-and-grab mission. But along the way, I stumbled across a tasty little tidbit. It seems Stark was at a Cuban embassy meeting with an undercover agent there. I'm worried he may be planning a change of alliance. If he takes James out of the country, I'll kill him."

"Hold on - what makes you think he wants to go live in Cuba?" Darien asked.

"It's a Treasury case because we suspect counterfeit bills are being passed by embassy personnel. We think it's a trial run for a bigger plan to flood our economy with fake bills. Just the type of trouble-making Chrysalis loves. Stark might be the front man for Chrysalis. Or he might be doing this on his own. "

"That doesn't mean he's moving the family." Bobby pointed out.

"I realize that, but what if he is? I'm a little scared." Alex hated to admit her true feelings.

"So you aren't sure what's going on but you want to put a stop to it?" Bobby inquired.

"Right. Anything I can do to make that S.O.B.'s life miserable." Alex nodded grimly.

Bobby parked Golda a block from a coffee shop and they walked up the street together in companionable silence. Alex had never taken time to notice the looks her some-time partners got from passing females in the crowd, but she was noticing this morning. Darien was attracting smiles from several of the women they passed. She noticed Bobby wasn't being ignored either

She'd taken several months to warm up to Hobbes, but he had grown on her. Like the time she insisted she be the one to face Javier's goons when Darien and Dante were in prison. Hobbes hadn't agreed with her plan but he'd backed her up just the same. His protective instincts towards her had been the biggest roadblock. Until she finally accepted them as fact, instinct, something he could no more control then she could control her drive for independence.

He protected Darien the same way, it was just in his nature. It wasn’t only because he thought they needed his protection, or that they weren't capable of fending for themselves. It was because he cared. It had been a long time since she’d known what that felt like. She even liked Hobbes offbeat sense of humor. Not that she would ever let him know. Friendship had been a rare thing in her life as an agent.

Bobby held the door for her and Darien.

"Let me get this," Alex offered as they approached the service counter, taking their place in the queue for their caffeine fix.

"Monroe, you don't have to...." Bobby interrupted, uncomfortable with her generosity. It was one of the things that annoyed her about him, that misplaced chivalry of his.

"Let her get it, Bobby; it's no big deal." Darien stopped the older agent from making a fuss over a cup of coffee, and Monroe breathed a sigh of relief.

"Ok, but next time," Bobby insisted.

"Why don't you go find us a table?" Darien suggested.

"What does Hobbes want?" Alex asked his partner as she prepared to place her own order.

"Anything. He's not picky." Darien stood beside her, waiting for the transaction to be completed.

Alex felt short next to him, but then, he  _was_  very tall. Six three at least. It was one of the reasons she hadn’t liked Fawkes at first, that towering presence of his intimidating even for a five-star agent, but she'd changed her mind more quickly about him than with Hobbes. Fawkes had an off-center charm that was hard to resist.

The woman in front of her in line was fumbling with her bag, a cell phone and a Palm Pilot all at the same time and dropped her bag. She bumped into Alex in her effort to retrieve her bag, and Alex was pushed off balance into Darien.

Caught unprepared, her first impression at the sudden contact was: damn, he's more solid than he looks. Her head impacted his chest, her hand braced to prevent more contact, but he managed to catch it in his large hand.

"Easy there, Alex," he reassured her.

"Sorry," she mumbled at Fawkes, embarrassment making her duck her head, unable to meet his eyes.

"I'm so sorry, please excuse me," the lady apologized, mortified.

"It's OK, no harm done," Darien assured her. He'd forgotten that Alex was so petite. She was such a force to reckoned with, he tended to forget she was so much smaller.

Alex straightened up away from the contact almost instantly, but Darien kept hold of her hand a moment.

The worry in his face was real, and she refused to let on how much she needed that display of concern. She stiffened, resisting him.

"You're worn out. When was the last time you slept?" he asked her, eyeing her with worry.

"A while, but I'm fine." She slipped back into her tough chick act.

"Hey, Alex, it's me, remember? We've worked together under some pretty tough circumstances. You've saved my life. Talk to me." The concern was genuine.

"Three large Kona blends, please." Alex gave the order, pretending to ignore him, then passed the money to the clerk.

Darien took two of the coffees when they were ready while Alex claimed the third. He saw that Hobbes had taken a table at the very back of the room. It was as secluded as it was possible to be in an open place like a coffee shop.

Alex considered telling them her troubles. But she couldn't imagine doing so, "I'm having a little trouble sleeping, it's nothing important. Just let it drop okay?"

"Bobby is a good listener, you'd be surprised. He's been there, too. He might have a few suggestions." Darien spoke quietly, understanding her concern.

"I can't let my guard down. It's not professional," Alex told him, hating that she had made that admission.

"Come on, it's time you told us everything." Darien nodded towards the table, taking her elbow and guiding her with gentle insistence.

"What took you so long?" Bobby asked when they reached them, taking his coffee from Darien and managing a test sip.

Alex set her cup on the table and braced her hands on the edge. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Bobby exchanged looks with Darien, knowing something was wrong; Alex virtually never allowed the stress of her job to show.

Darien, still standing, put his cup down and placed a hand on the base of Alex's neck in a gesture of support, half expecting her to shrug him off.

She did, the refusal of comfort a reflex, in spite of her desire to allow the contact.

She had welcomed Darien's touch, tired of having only herself to depend on all the time for so long. Tired of being the tough chick, the one who didn't take anything, need anyone. What she really needed was for someone to hold her, just for a minute or two, to take away the pain that seemed to be such a permanent part of her. But she would never, ever, ask either of her partners for that type of comfort.

She knew Darien felt her tension, that he wanted to help her hold it together, not lose it. He motioned to Bobby to disappear for a few minutes, thinking Alex might allow him to offer her support if they were alone.

Bobby frowned. He didn't like seeing her struggling. He wanted to help too. Darien glared at him and nodded for him to go. But Alex moved into a seat and settled in to tell them what was going on. Darien frowned, then took the seat across from her.

"So you want to explain about this mission?" Bobby didn't ask or refer in anyway to her little moment of weakness.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"What was that all about?" Bobby asked once they were back in the van.

Alex had gone her own way back to her car.

"She's tired, or something. I tried to get her to explain..." Darien said and hoped Bobby would drop it.

"Monroe? Not even, she's the toughest agent I've ever met."

"Well even tough guys need support from friends and family sometimes," Darien defended her.

Bobby was about to say he never did, then remembered he'd been pretty needy there for a few months when Viv had left him. If it hadn't been for his doctors he probably would have...

"Yeah, OK, but I don't see you offering hugs all over the place."

"Hey, you want a hug, pull over. I'm an equal opportunity kind of guy,"

Darien responded. He didn't have a problem hugging another guy, especially one he loved as much as he did his partner.

"No, that's OK." Bobby shook his head. "But it's nice to know you would if I needed it."

"Alright then. How are we going to help Alex? I mean besides helping her with the B&E later."

"I don't know. What do you think she needs? Time off? Some kind of counseling? You think the stress of the job is getting to her?"

"I don't know, but once this is over, I'm going to find out."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When they returned to the Agency, Bobby headed for his office to make some inquiries with his network of informants. He wanted to learn if there was any information out there about the possible counterfeit operation at the embassy.

Darien went to talk with Claire, hoping she might have an idea of how to get Alex to accept help.

"Hey, Claire, are you busy?"

"Yes, actually, I'm making some headway with this new project." She finished mixing a pair of chemicals together as he approached her working station. "Did you know that applying heat to a molecular mixture of beta carotene, hydro-sulfuric acid and ....."

"No science lesson today, Claire. Can I get some advice?"

"Yes, of course. What's troubling you?" She turned to face him when he’d asked for help.

"It's Alex. She's part of our new case. Only she seemed fragile today. Like she's this close to breaking." He held up his thumb and forefinger, almost touching, to illustrate his point.

"That doesn't sound like Alex," Claire frowned. "Do you know if she's been under more strain than usual?"

"I don't know, but when I touched her back, I could feel she was hanging on for all she was worth there for a minute. Then she was better, back to almost normal," he explained.

"She allowed you to comfort her? That is out of character, but it might have been just what she needed. Alex is so self sufficient, asking for support from anyone goes against her rules. But everyone needs support, comfort or someone to listen, from time to time." Claire stood and paced over to her computer, then back to Darien. "You can't really do more then offer. You can't make someone accept help unless they've gone so far off track they need medical intervention."

"You mean like when Bobby..." Darien knew very little about the details of his partner's brushes with mental illness, but he knew they had been serious.

"Yes, exactly. Does she seem depressed?"

"No, like I said she seemed fragile. And that's not a term I thought I'd ever use when describing Alex."

Claire nodded.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Two

 

Alex, Bobby and Darien arrived at the location for the B&E in her black van. Deciding Golda might look out of place in the high rent area of town where the embassies from several countries where located.

It was just after the midnight shift change. The building they would be attempting to sneak into was a two-story white stucco Spanish colonial with dormer windows facing the street.

Darien was dressed in his all black outfit as requested: snug black jeans and his black turtleneck sweater that fit him like a second skin.

Bobby was wearing black also, but his outfit was a black leather jacket and dress slacks so that he might be able to pass himself off as just a guy out on the town.

"So are you ready?" Alex took a deep breath. She was also dressed all in black as before, her black leggings and form fitting stretchy top showing off her figure. "Hobbes I have the equipment you'll need to monitor us over here."

"Right just show me the set up, and you two can get going," Hobbes said, fine with getting straight down to business.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Darien chimed in.

"This is all the same stuff you're used to. Our frequency is already set. Darien, here's your headset." She passed the small mic and battery pack to him.

He threaded it into place, running the wire under his top shirt and tucking the battery pack into his waistband.

"Can you hear me Hobbes?" he tested the equipment.

Bobby gave him a visual OK. "Can you hear me?" Bobby asked in return.

Darien nodded.

"Great, we have twenty two minutes to get in and out before the next round by the guard," Alex told him.

"Alex, you're sure they haven’t brought in dogs?" Bobby asked as his companions turned to leave.

"No, when I was in there last night, there was only the usual motion detectors and cameras. They haven’t used dog in over three years."

Hobbes nodded, relieved. "Good luck. Keep me posted."

Alex and Darien moved off into the darkness, leaving Bobby to keep watch for trouble.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They managed to move past the outer perimeter with little trouble. Darien attached a standard looping device to the camera at the outer corner of the compound, allowed it to record for perhaps thirty seconds, then engaged the switch that would override the signal from the camera. Alex was up and over the wall in a few seconds, followed by him. They moved from shadow to shadow in the compound around the building. Alex had already told Darien the plan: they were going to scale the outside of the building to the roof, using the same handy drain pipe she’d used the day before, and enter through the window she'd rigged from her last entry attempt.

Alex led the way, climbing up the drain pipe with ease and hiding on the roof out of view while Darien climbed up after her.

"We're on the roof," Darien told Bobby once he'd joined Alex.

"I copy." Bobby kept his response short.

Alex waved to Darien to follow her, and she moved across the roof as quietly as a cat. Darien would have been impressed if he didn't already know her abilities. She tested the window she'd rigged but it had been discovered and was once again locked. "Damn."

"Maybe we should forget it," Darien whispered. "They might be expecting us."

"Believe me, I'd like nothing better than to forget it, but the proof we need is going to be sent back to Cuba in a few days. This may be our last chance at it."

"Then follow me." Darien moved back across the roof and to another area of the house. He lowered himself down to a small balcony and picked the lock on the door. He cautiously opened the French doors and checked inside but the room was empty. Backing out of the doorway, he waved Alex down to join him.

"How's it going, guys?" Bobby's voice filled their headsets.

"How much time?" Darien asked, checking his watch.

"You got about twelve more minutes."

"This way," Alex motioned to him. Darien followed her down a dark hallway, then down a small back stairway. She peeked around the corner then scurried to the second door on the left, opening it soundlessly and letting them inside. She moved confidently across the room and pulled down a large painting from the wall.

"You're kidding right?" Darien asked in disbelief as he caught sight of the old fashioned wall safe.

"I have the combination, if it hasn't been changed in the last few days," Alex told him and handed it to him, moving aside. The safe was mounted high on the wall, which meant Darien would have an easier time turning the knob on the combination lock.

Darien grinned in the darkness and rubbed his hands together. He spun the dial and began to turn the knob for the first number. The safe clicked open a few seconds later. He swung the door open and checked for any interior monitors. He didn't see any but he Quicksilvered his eyes just to be on the safe side. There it was one very thin beam of intense light crossing the inside of the safe. He Quicksilvered his hand and arm and reached inside and grabbed everything in the safe. He checked the collection of items in his hand. He saw American currency in a small bundle and several computer disks.

"Take it all. We'll sort it out later," Alex advised. Darien did as she’d ordered, then closed the safe back up and put the picture back into place.

"We got it. Let's go," Alex whispered.

"You better hustle, it's down to five minutes," came Bobby's voice on the headset.

Darien led the way back out, Alex just as happy to let him take the lead. She was glad to have had his help; her hands were shaking again, and she wasn't sure she could have dialed the combination herself.

Darien took them back to the room they'd entered through, but he lowered himself down from the balcony and dropped to the ground. Alex had the documents stuffed inside her tunic, so she had both hands free. She swung a leg over the balcony and was about to drop to the ground beside Darien when an alarm went off.

On the ground below her, Darien tensed. "Oh, crap." He Quicksilvered himself. "Let go. I'll catch you."

Normally, Alex wouldn't have followed orders like that, but in this case, it seemed like a good idea. She dropped into his arms and was swallowed up by the Quicksilver. Even through it, she could feel the solid strength of his chest as he caught her awkwardly, her head hitting his shoulder hard.

She was only in his arms for a few seconds, but the comfort of them around her was strangely reassuring. It made her glad he was on her side. "Whoa," she muttered, unsure if the comment was in reference to the chill of the Quicksilver coating her skin, or the heat of Fawkes' body against hers.

"Do you guys need me to come for you?" they both heard Bobby's voice asking over their headsets.

Bobby was outside the surveillance van, gun at the ready. He wasn't sure if creating a diversion would help at this point or not.

"No, hang on partner, I think we're home free." Darien told him.

Darien, with Alex in his arms, ran the short distance to the wall, and boosted Alex over it. Then he backed up and jumped for a hand-hold. He was up and over in seconds. Alex un-Quicksilvered when she landed, the impact knocking the stuff off in a rain of glitter, but as soon as Darien joined her, he Quicksilvered her again.

"Bobby, meet us on over on Front Street. We're out, but it's still possible they could locate us if we go back towards you."

"You got it partner." Bobby jumped in the black van and slowly drove off.

"It's nice you don't have to conserve the Quicksilver." Alex remembered cases they had worked when his limitations had almost cost both their lives.

"Yeah, it's real nice." Darien escorted her toward the new location for the pick up. "What about you? Are you OK? You seem a little shaky." Darien knew he shouldn't be prying but he did anyway.

"What  _about_  me? I’m not the one with a gland problem," she snapped back, tugging her arm free of his grip.

"I'm not the one with that problem either, any more, remember?" Fawkes said as he regained a hold on her. "I need to touch you for the Quicksilver to work, OK?" he informed her and embarrassment flooded her.

She was glad of the Quicksilver, because the blush on her face would have been noticeable even in the dark. "Sorry, I'll be fine," Alex lied. She didn't know why she was having bouts of trembling. They had started a week ago, coming and going unpredictably. But her strength was fine, as was her stamina, most of the time. It was just every once in a while... But she'd drawn some strength from having Fawkes at her back during the safe-robbing portion of the mission, and from that moment in his arms below the balcony, so she wasn’t as weak as she sometimes got when it hit.

The black van pulled up and they climbed in the side door, the Quicksilver falling off once they were safe inside.

"God, that feels weird," Alex said, shaking off the last of the silver flakes.

"Fun isn't it?" Bobby asked from the driver’s seat as he started the van again.

"That's one way to describe it." Alex looked wide-eyed at Darien.

"Are you alright? Your temple whacked my shoulder kind of hard when I caught you," Darien asked reaching to tilt her head into the light so he could look at her eye.

"I've been hurt worse in martial arts practice. I'm fine. Thanks," Alex added.

"You're going to have a black eye," Darien told her, as he checked her over.

"She's tough, partner. When we get back to the Agency..."

"We can't go back there," Alex spoke up, interrupting Hobbes.

"Ok, then where are we going?" Bobby asked calmly. "To the Treasury offices?"

"I'd feel better if you let Claire look at your eye," Darien fussed, hovering over her. She tried not to let his concern distract her.

"She won't be there this late," Bobby reminded him.

"Yeah, I almost forgot Claire doesn't wait around on me now," Darien grinned.

"Ok, so where are we going?" Bobby asked again.

"How about my HQ? I'll drop the stuff off , you can pick up your van, and then we can all go out for a drink?" Alex suggested. "My treat."

"Sounds good," Bobby turned confidently at the next corner, obviously not needing her help in navigating.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien and Bobby were sitting outside the Treasury building in Golda, waiting for Alex to return, Darien stretched out in his usual casual sprawl in his seat, Bobby relaxing behind the wheel.

"So when she comes back do you want me to disappear, partner?" Bobby asked.

"No, why would I...?" Darien glanced over at Bobby. "No! Why are you trying to pair me off with her?"

"Because you like her, she likes you, we don't work together that often right now."

"Man, it's always straight to Naughtyville with you. I'm not trying to get Alex into bed, so just lay off, will you?" Darien glared at him.

"I'm just saying, Fawkes," Hobbes grinned at his partner. "She really enjoyed breaking up your party with that hot little honey you met at the newsstand that time. She was real glad we got there before things got serious," Bobby smirked.

"She gloated about it?" Darien asked blushing slightly.

"Well, let's just say she was thrilled we got there before things happened. I think she was a little jealous," Bobby teased.

"Alex jealous? Over me? Give me a break, Hobbes," Darien scoffed, not believing that for a second.

"OK, guys, let's go, I'm off the clock now." Alex returned and joined them in the van.

Alex had changed part of her outfit while she was inside. Her black sweater was gone and she was wearing a silver silk top with a deeply cut décolleté.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

They arrived at a local bar a few minutes later and Alex again noticed all the looks her two male companions were collecting from the women present as they entered the bar.

"You can buy the first round, but the second one is on me," Bobby said leading them to a booth that was open near the back of the long wood-paneled room.

"Fine, Hobbes," she said, throwing up her hands in defeat. "I appreciate your help tonight, guys; I want you to know that."

"You're welcome," Darien nodded. He took a seat on the inside because he knew Bobby preferred to be facing out so he could watch the room. Bobby grabbed his favorite spot which left Alex to choose. She could sit beside Darien or Bobby. She chose Darien.

Bobby smiled. Darien glared at him.

"What can I get for you?" the waitress asked as she arrived. She smiled at Bobby, then noticed Darien and smiled even more nicely for him.

"Two drafts, and, Alex, did you want a beer?" Bobby answered for himself and Darien.

"I'll have a margarita, please."

"Sure, coming right up." She hurried off.

"So do you like working for Treasury?" Darien asked. He figured it was a safe enough topic.

"It's not bad. They usually let me do assignments alone. Although when the President visits later this year we are all going to be pulling security duty," Alex paused, then continued. "Have you heard the latest? I heard Stark was demoted as head of the west coast branch of Chrysalis."

"When did you learn that and how?" Darien asked.

"Just now, when I turned things in and made a quick report. The information is hot off the intel line."

"Well, I hope our little B&E tonight spoiled his plans." Darien added.

"Yeah, anything to ruin his day." Bobby agreed.

The drinks came and they raised their glasses together to celebrate a successful mission.

"I have a toast," Alex kept her glass up after taking a sip. "To Claire, for discovering how to fix the... the problem." Alex knew better than to talk about something as highly classified as his gland in public.

"Here, here," Bobby and Darien both agreed.

As the night went on, they drank a few more rounds. Bobby stopped after two, since he had designated himself driver, so he was sipping on a ginger ale while the other two were still having stronger drinks.

It was nearly closing time when Hobbes escorted Darien and Alex to the van. Alex was hanging on to Darien, giggling and feeling no pain. Her fourth margarita must have done it. Darien was slightly drunk, but he was mobile. Bobby started the van after getting them both into the back seat.

Darien sprawled across the seat, with Alex leaning back in the far corner, both of them half asleep.

"Alex, I don't know where you live," Hobbes turned back to watch them. "Alex, wake up a second and tell me your address." Bobby reached a hand back and shook her, but she was out. He picked up her purse and pulled out her wallet. He knew the neighborhood, but it was a code-access building. They all were in that part of town. "Great, not only do I have to nursemaid my partner, now I have to take care of five-star lady agent." He pulled up to Fawkes’ building. "Come on, partner, I don't want to have to carry you again." Bobby got Darien to wake up.

Bobby guided Darien up to his apartment, then went back to the van and a sleeping Alex. He drove her to her place and tried to wake her enough to tell him the access code. "Come on, Monroe, just tell me your code number for the building, and I'll have you in your place in no time." Bobby patted her cheek and shook her a little by the shoulders.

"Um, Hobbes, it's 72461," Alex said groggily and opened her eyes a little to looked at him. Bobby assisted her out of the van, hoisted her to her feet and wrapped a strong arm around her body. He walked her to the door and swiped her key card, then punched in her code. He was relieved when it worked and the door buzzed so that he could pull it open.

Bobby carried her down the hall to her door, then into her apartment. He laid her on her couch, removed her shoes and weapon and covered her with a throw. "You're as bad as Fawkes some days," he said, shaking his head he left.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Sir, there's a call for you from an Agent Jensen at the Department of Treasury." Eberts entered the Official's office carrying a stack of files.

"That's where Miss Monroe is on loan at the moment, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir, that is correct." Eberts set the files on the table behind the Official's desk preparing for a scheduled meeting with Fawkes and Hobbes.

"Agent Jensen, I hope you are taking good care of our five-star agent," the Official said as he picked up the phone.

"Agent Monroe is working out well, but she has uncovered information that leads us to believe more could be developed if you'd consider loaning us Agents Fawkes and Hobbes." Jensen didn't like having to ask, but if Monroe's hunch panned out it could mean a promotion for him, breaking a major west coast case.

"You want to borrow a pair of my Agents," the Official stated, positively giddy. He covered the mouth piece of the phone, "Eberts, get out the quarterly report. We might be able to order that new fax machine after all." He uncovered the mouthpiece of the phone and went on with feigned calm. "You were saying?"

"Monroe tells me you have an Agent Fawkes who has a special talent we need on this case." Jensen cleared his throat, clearly hating having to ask for a favor from Charlie Borden.

"Ah, yes, Fawkes and his partner, Bobby Hobbes, are two of my best men. They'll cost you almost as much as Monroe.

"I think we can make arrangements for an additional fee, if you could send them over today. We'd like to get started."

"Of course. Nice doing business with you." The Official hung up the phone. "Eberts, get Fawkes and Hobbes in here right away."

"Yes, sir. They are due for a morning briefing any minute now." Eberts looked up from his arranging of the file folders.

Bobby entered the Official's office just as Eberts was saying this, followed seconds later by Darien. Fawkes was carrying a large cup of coffee and still chewing on a breakfast roll of some kind.

"Hobbes, take a seat. This is going to be a short meeting." The Official stood and glared at Darien. Darien stuffed the last of his breakfast into his mouth and pretended he wasn't eating in the Official's office again after he'd been asked not to on numerous occasions.

"Good morning, Chief." Bobby took his seat, prepared to let Darien take the heat for a change.

"Agent Fawkes there has been a special request for your services from the Department of Treasury. You and Hobbes will report there this morning for a briefing."

"Department of Treasury? You mean it's an official request this time? Not just Alex wanting an assist?" Darien questioned.

"Miss Monroe has cleared it with her superiors, and she requested your assistance." He smiled, remembering they were now going to get paid for two more agents on loan.

Eberts was standing at the Official’s side, listening. He looked disappointed that his new briefing materials weren't going to be used.

"We'll make you proud, Chief. Come on, partner, let's see if we can get over there before cross-town traffic gets heavy." Bobby stood up and refastened his jacket button.

"Don't worry, I'll keep the invisible thing to myself as much as possible," Darien assured the Official, on his way out.

"Eberts, what have those two been up too?" The Official hadn't liked Darien's parting comment.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

As Darien and Bobby entered the Treasury building, Hobbes pushed open the lobby's double doors and speculated, "I figure they offered him money for our time." He approached the front desk and its bored occupant. "We're here for a briefing. Agent Hobbes and Fawkes." Bobby showed his badge to the man at the front desk.

"Yes, sir, room 235. The elevators are on the right just over there." The gesture was haphazard, lazy.

"Thanks," Bobby said disapprovingly and moved off towards the elevators, Darien following him. The Treasury building was a lot nicer than the Harding building they called home. It looked as if it had been built in the last ten or fifteen years. The elevators were large and silent, unlike the old-style small creak-and-moan ones at the Harding building.

They entered room 235 and were greeted by two men, and Alex.

"Thanks for agreeing to help us out." Alex stood up and handed them each a file as they arrived. The bruise from the night before was not completely hidden by her makeup. And the night of drinking hadn't helped with her exhaustion.

"Agents Robert Hobbes, Darien Fawkes, this is my superior, Owen Jensen and Agent Michael Grant." Alex introduced everyone.

Jensen was a man of average height with graying hair and blue eyes. Agent Grant looked younger, more Darien's age, his complexion dark, his stance that of a former military type.

"Nice of you to help us out, gentlemen." Owen offered to shake hands.

They all exchanged handshakes and then everyone took a seat around the oval table. "Sure, anytime." Bobby nodded.

Alex flipped off the lights and started showing slides of people. "This is Ernesto Perez. He is a Cuban agent we suspect of setting up the counterfeit op from contacts he's made in the area." A photo of a middle-aged man of Hispanic heritage, with a mustache and carefully styled dark hair shimmered on the wall. "And this is Jared Stark, one of the men I suspect of assisting with the counterfeit money passing."

Darien coughed as Stark's photo appeared on the large screen. He knew that Alex had been following Stark's whereabouts, but this picture looked very recent. Alex had really meant it when she said that she only kept her job with the Agency to find her son, and get back at Stark..

"This is Helena Perez, the wife of Ernesto, and also an undersecretary for her government." Mrs. Perez was also middle-aged, with carefully applied makeup and rich, dark hair. She was wearing designer clothes and gold jewelry.

Alex flipped on the lights. "So what we need help with is a little sensitive," she said, sounding uncomfortable as she sat down across from Darien and Bobby.

"I've been wondering what we’re doing here," Bobby said.

Agent Grant spoke up. "Helena Perez has a weakness for tall men."

Darien looked worried. He'd been taking classes locally in espionage techniques and had been getting coaching from Hobbes, but he hadn't needed to prove his talent in anything but shooting and self-defense. Well, there had been that Big Frickin’ Mess case, with Senator McEvy a few months ago, but that had been strictly off the record. Bobby tried to hide a smirk, but he didn't try very hard.

"Agent Fawkes, we'd like to send you in undercover to get information from Mrs. Perez," Alex told him, and gave him a look like ‘if you'll just agree to this now I'll explain later’.

"Hey, great! Fawkes just took a course in CTS. He can put it to use," Bobby said.

Darien didn't want to reveal his insecurities in the CTS department in front of Alex's boss and make her look bad, so he agreed. "I can do that, I guess," he said finally, reluctantly.

"Great, then I'll turn you over to Agent Monroe." Jensen stood. "She can finish the briefing."

Once their boss was out of the room, Grant stood also. "Can I offer you guys some coffee?" It was clear he didn't want to be in the room when Alex explained the details of the case.

"I'm good," Bobby waved him off. "I want to hear this."

Grant left, and Alex looked even more uncomfortable. Darien looked even more unhappy. Bobby grinned, loving the entire situation.

"Uh, why couldn't you get one of  _your_  agents to do this?" Darien asked unhappily.

"Mrs. Perez likes tall men.  _Much_  taller men. Younger men. We don't really have anyone here that fits that description," Alex explained.

"How far do I have to go to get this information?" Darien asked uneasily.

"Whatever it takes, partner," Bobby chimed in.

"Don't compromise security, but do what you have to." Alex evaded the issue.

"Come on, buddy, you can do it," Bobby complimented him.

"Yeah, I guess I  _could_  do it, but do I have to?" Darien whined.

"We need your help, Darien. I need you to do this so we can corner Stark and the rest of them." Alex was firm, but both of them could sense the urgency she felt.

"Ok," Darien sighed. "When is this going down?"

"Tonight. There’s a reception at the Embassy. I've gotten an invitation for you. I'll also be there but not with you," Alex explained.

"Do you need me for back up, or are you two on your own?" Bobby asked. "No," Alex paused. "Yes. I need you to be my date. Escort me to the party, and help me keep the way clear for Darien to meet Mrs. Perez."

"Oh, I get to go to the par-tay, too?" Bobby stood up, apparently looking forward to this mission even more now, if it meant he could attend a function with Alex on his arm, and his partner on parade. "I think you're going to have to expense a suit for him. His wardrobe being what it is..." Bobby didn't finish his comment.

"I can authorize that," Alex nodded.

"Uh, question?" Darien raised his hand like a student, after glaring at Hobbes about that wardrobe crack.

"Yes?" Alex rolled her eyes.

"Do I get some expense money for this? If I'm trying to impress the lady, aren't I going to need some cash?" he inquired, calculatingly.

"Yes, you'll have spending money. Just don't go crazy with it," Alex warned him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Do you really have to be  _with_  me? I think I can manage to pick out a suit without your guys' help." Darien protested.

"From the looks of your wardrobe, I'd say you need all the help you can get." Alex gave his usual retro casual funky print shirt and beige pants a look.

"Yeah. I've got to agree with Monroe on this one, partner. You need help when it comes to dressing nice." Bobby waved over one of the salesmen.

"He needs a nice suit, maybe Italian, but not top of the line." Alex was trying to keep the expense down, but make it look good.

"Yes, ma'am, I believe we will be able to find just the suit you are looking for."

Darien rolled his eyes and sighed, but with a small push from Bobby he followed the salesman and Alex towards the Italian suits.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Come on, what's wrong with this one?" Darien complained almost an hour later. He'd already tried on four suits and he was more than ready to stop. But Alex was being very choosy.

"What do you think, Hobbes?" Alex asked as she did another turn around Darien. The suit looked nice on him, even as lanky as he was. She was pleasantly surprised.

"I like this one." Bobby was growing weary of the search also. It wasn't like Fawkes was that hard to fit.

"Alright we'll take this one and the gray one. Can you have them ready by five?"

"Yes, ma'am, of course." The salesman waved over his fitter to make sure they got the best length for Darien.

The fitter spoke up after marking the length. "Shall I take in the sides just a little more?" he asked Darien, then when no response was given he looked to Alex for an answer.

"Yes, we want him to look his best." Alex had a mischievous look in her eyes as she said this.

Darien suddenly got very worried about exactly how far he was going to have to go in the line of duty for this information.

"Don't sweat it, partner, you can handle this." Bobby reassured him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Three

 

Darien entered the room, paused and surveyed the place, looking for his partners. It was a reception for the new assistant ambassador, so he could meet and greet other members of the embassy community. Waiters were circulating with champagne and a wide variety of food was off to the side, available for

sampling. The lighting was soft, casting a gentle glow on the people present, helping them to look their best.

Alex was keeping a careful watch on the people attending the reception, and Bobby was also moving through the crowd keeping an eye out for trouble.

Darien felt a little nervous, his hand were sweating like it was his first time asking a girl to the junior high dance.

He hadn't had to seduce anyone as part of a job before. He'd been seduced by Allianora, but he didn't have to hide his ability to Quicksilver with her. He took a deep breath and walked down the small flight of stairs. He'd already spotted his target. Now all he had to do was meet her.

Darien made sure he was visible, standing out from the crowd. He kept glancing Helena's way, making eye contact with her several times. He hoped his smile in return would produce results. But she made it easy; she approached him after he'd only been there fifteen minutes.

"Hello, I don't believe I've had the pleasure." She offered to shake hands with him, while studying him intently. Her tongue slide over her lips letting Darien know that she clearly liked what she saw.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Bingo," Bobby returned to Alex's side, "he's made contact."

"Good. Let's hope she likes him. I don't have a back-up plan if this doesn't work." Alex nodded and turned her attention to the action across the room. It appeared that Helena was attracted to Darien.

Darien was talking with Helena, flirting outrageously. Whatever it was he was saying kept her laughing, and the hungry appreciation on her face made it clear to anyone who looked her way that she had just latched onto her dessert of choice.

Bobby stayed near Alex, keeping an eye on Darien and Mrs. Perez. He was sharing a small plate of appetizers with her and pretending to be making small talk. He had every confidence that his partner would do him proud. But it was fun watching Alex, watching Fawkes. He did think Alex would have liked to have met Darien in other than a work atmosphere.

"Looks like it's a slam dunk," Bobby whispered to her a few minutes later.

"Yeah, I chose Fawkes because he fits the profile of the type of men she's attracted to," Alex replied glancing at Bobby for a moment, then returning her gaze to Darien and the lady in question.

"So Alex, would you care to dance? I think we are going to be here for a while yet, and we might as well enjoy ourselves," Bobby offered.

"Alright," she accepted the offer, and for the first time since Darien had entered Helena Perez’s orbit, Bobby felt like he had her full attention.

"What?" he asked, as her gaze raked him critically, taking in the well-fitted tux and the crisply pressed dress shirt he wore. "I spill something on the duds?" he asked, glancing down at his lapels.

"No," Alex answered, a little flustered. "It's just the first time I've seen you all dressed up."

"I clean up good." Bobby grinned at her, pleased at the left-handed compliment, and led her to the dance floor, and they waltzed through two songs. A small orchestra was playing for the partygoers, and the live music added to the atmosphere of wealth and privilege.

Alex kept checking on Darien's progress over Hobbes’ shoulder, but they just seemed to be talking. "Why isn't he dancing with her?" she asked, frustrated.

"Monroe, relax will ya? He knows what he's doing." Bobby told her.

"I know, you already told me he went through your version of CTS training, but he's still not really a trained agent, like you and me."

"Maybe not by your standards, Monroe, but he's doing pretty good. You should see him on the target range. He's a pretty good shot." Hobbes waved a hand in Darien's direction. "I think he can handle this assignment, he's practically got her drooling on him," Bobby told her. "Or is it that you would really rather he didn't complete this assignment?" he teased her.

"Of course not, why would I want him to fail? I was my idea to ask the Agency for assistance. I'd look foolish if the man I chose for the mission failed," Alex protested.

"I just thought maybe you were a little jealous," Bobby goaded her.

"Jealous? Me? Of Darien? Are you serious?" Alex came to a halt on the dance floor. Bobby had to nudge her to get her moving again.

"Okay, so you're not jealous. I just thought you were so happy to stop his little rendezvous with that chick from the magazine stand, maybe you wanted him for yourself, that's all." Bobby continued, mostly because she'd really overreacted to his suggestion that she liked Darien and wanted him for herself. Something about 'the lady doth protest too much'.

"I was happy we found him so quickly. It had nothing to do with preventing him from taking that trollop to bed," Alex stated.

"Okay, okay, just a thought. Trollop huh?" Bobby snickered, not believing her pronouncement that she wasn't jealous.

"You're impossible," Alex sighed in exasperation, but she still kept her eye on what Darien was doing.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien was still chatting up Helena. He'd asked her to dance but she kept saying she'd prefer to talk. So they were talking, and she was flirting.

He was responding, but not too strongly. She seemed to want to do all of the pursuing in the relationship.

She was nice looking, with carefully applied makeup, and artfully arranged hair. It was so black it must be colored, at her age. She looked to be in her fifties. Her designer clothes reflected her wealth without going over the top. If it wasn't for the fact he felt like a mouse being stalked by a big fluffy cat, Darien almost could have liked her.

The evening wore on, and Darien beginning to wonder if he was going to succeed in his objective, when she finally invited him to join her for a private drink.

"Don't you have to keep things kind of low key?" he asked, hesitantly. "I wouldn't want to cause any trouble between you and…"

"Oh, you mean my husband? He's probably already in bed with his latest mistress. As long as I don't protest his behavior, he lets me alone," she told him and took his arm, walking him towards the stairs. Darien noticed she was slightly unsteady on her feet, like she may have enjoyed more than the two drinks he'd seen her sipping.

Darien soon found himself in her private suite. It was a beautiful room decorated in soft pastels, with plush carpet, satin drapes and several gilt mirrors on the walls.

He was getting nervous again. She clearly wanted to do more than talk, and he wasn't sure he could keep his cool enough to keep from Quicksilvering at the critical moment.

"Now then, what can I offer you to drink?" Helena walked to the far side of the room and lifted a decanter of brandy, offering to pour him one.

"Whatever you're having is fine." Darien tried to calm down. If he was this nervous, things weren't going to go well. He tugged nervously at his shirt collar as if to loosen it and paced to the window as she was pouring the drinks.

Helena poured them each a brandy and handed him a snifter. She was eyeing him again, and he felt like the prize bull at the county fair.

Darien wasn't having much success calming himself down, so when Helena moved in close and kissed him, he fumbled his glass of brandy.

"Relax, we have all night," Helena told him, taking the glass from him and setting it on an end table. Stroking her hand over his shirtfront, she smiled seductively up at him.

Darien smiled weakly at her, "I'm just worried we might be interrupted."

"I told you, my husband doesn't care what I do, so long as I'm discreet," she assured him as she untied his bow tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. She kissed him again, and Darien tried to respond convincingly. But pretending to be turned on by this woman was going to take some serious acting on his part. He was just beginning to get into his role as her lover when Helena guided him to the bed, pushing him down onto it gently and settling down beside him so she could nip his lower lip. Experimentally, Darien nibbled on her earlobe, then kissed his way behind her ear and down her neck, her sighs of arousal telling him he was on the right track. As he continued to kiss down her neck, her sighs stopped and he realized she'd passed out.

He was relieved. He took several deep breaths, then moved off the bed.

He removed her shoes, covered her with her bedspread, and left her a note asking her to call him. Re-buttoning his shirt and tying his bow tie, he let himself out of her rooms and made his way back downstairs, where the party was still in full swing.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Looks like lover-boy is done for the evening." Bobby nodded towards the foyer. Darien paused long enough for Bobby to notice him, then left, the plan being to meet back up with Bobby and Alex at the Agency.

Once away from the embassy, the three agents gathered for an informal debriefing in Bobby's office. "What happened? I mean did you gain her confidence?" Alex changed her question. She had no desire to hear details of what had gone on between Darien and Helena.

"It wasn't exactly her confidence I was going for just now." Darien glared at Alex. "We were starting to get somewhere, there for a minute, but she had too much to drink and passed out." Darien made his explanation quickly. "I left her my number; I'm sure she'll be calling."

"Good thinking, partner. Yeah, I think you'll hear from her." Bobby nodded, smirking.

"Why didn't you prevent her from drinking so much?" Alex criticized.

"She only had two drinks while I was with her. She must have had several before the party started," Darien shrugged.

"Great. It's just going to take longer for you to learn what we need, now."

"He's doing fine, Monroe. Cut him a break will yeah?" Bobby defended his partner.

"Yeah, it's not like I scared her off or anything. She was the one that drank too much," Darien added, annoyed at the implied lapse on his part.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Not surprisingly, Darien did hear from Helena the next morning.

He was just entering the Agency building when he nearly bumped into the Official's assistant. "Hey, Eberts, how's it going?"

"Good morning, Darien. Things have been quiet here this morning." Eberts nodded to him and kept moving up the hall towards the file room. Darien's cell phone rang "Hello?"

"Darien, thank you for the note," came Helena's voice. "I'm so embarrassed about last night. I hadn't realized I'd had that much to drink. Can I make it up to you? I'd like to see you again. Let me take you to dinner. What is your favorite restaurant?"

"I like Michel's," Darien suggested one of the fanciest venues in San Diego

He could practically hear her smile when she replied. "Michel’s it is."

"I'll pick you up at seven," Darien told her.

"No, I'll meet you there, my sweet. More discreet that way."

"Fine. At seven then," Darien hung up.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"We'll have to wire you so we can tape anything she says," Alex told Darien later that afternoon when he told her about his impending date with Helena.

"But no ear piece, we don't want to risk her noticing," Bobby added.

"Couldn't I have one of those really tiny ones that go all the way inside your ear?" Darien asked, plaintively. He really preferred not to go solo on this assignment, and being in touch with his back up was reassuring.

"No, Bobby's right. Considering the type of relationship, placing the mic where it won't be noticed is going to be hard enough." Alex said, pacing across the room. "You have to get her to talk about Stark, or any contact she may know about that her husband might have had with members of Chrysalis."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien was wearing the other suit Alex had expensed for him, tugging on his tie as they drove to the restaurant. Alex had spent most of the afternoon using her contacts to get a reservation at Michel’s on such short notice. He was nervous, so nervous that he trying his biofeedback and relaxation techniques to calm himself. The worry about what he might have to do to gain Helena’s confidence was still there in the back of his mind.

"Okay, partner, make me proud." Bobby patted Darien on the back as he climbed out of the van and walked into the restaurant.

Hobbes and Monroe parked alongside the building and tuned into Darien’s mic.

"Relax, Monroe, he'll find out what Stark has been up to," Bobby assured her. Alex was pacing the sidewalk beside the van; Helena hadn't arrived yet and she was taking advantage of the break.

"I'll relax when this is over." Alex glared at him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien was standing in the foyer when Helena arrived.

"I'm glad you called this morning. Please allow me," he offered her his arm and escorted her to the table, following behind the maître d'.

"I'm glad you left me your number," Helena smiled up at Darien.

Helena Perez was already high as a kite as they sat down at their table. Darien guessed that the mini bar in her limo was probably empty. But that didn’t seem to stop her. The first thing she ordered was a bottle of Dom Perignon and quickly drank three glasses of it as Darien sipped on one.

As their meal arrived they discussed random topics from current news events to the way that San Diego had grown in the past twenty years.

Eventually the small talk stopped. For a few awkward minutes Darien and Helena sat silently, Darien toying with his food. Then out of the blue Helena brought up the reception the embassy had held the other night. She wanted to talk about all the wonderful people she had seen there, but Darien turned the conversation to something they could use, working into asking about Stark.

"I saw a man at the Embassy the other day. I've heard things about him, I was wondering if they were true?"

"Who would that be?"

"I believe he's called Stark; I've heard he can arrange for all types of special requests." Darien was treading lightly.

"Yes, he is very resourceful. He helped us with a supply problem we were having," She nodded and sipped her wine.

"I see. Then he's a good man to have around?"

"Yes, a very good man." Something in her tone told Darien she meant in more ways than one.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Bobby and Alex were listening in the van.

"Ouch, that doesn't sound good. You don't think she...." Hobbes started, then shuddered.

"I think anything is possible with this woman," Alex frowned. "She's like a dog in heat."

Bobby made a face. He'd do just about anything for his country, but following Jared Stark when it came to, he didn't even want to go there.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien wasn't sure if she was implying she'd taken Stark to her bed, but he was sure he didn't want to know. He fought to maintain a neutral look on his face when what he really wanted to do was gag.

"Shall we have my driver drop us off at a hotel I know nearby?" Helena asked, reaching to caress Darien's hand where it rested on the table.

"Yeah, sure. I've been looking forward to this all day," Darien did his best to sound tempted.

"Hang in there, Fawkes, you can do it." Bobby was cheering his partner on. Alex rolled her eyes and shook her head, almost sorry she'd ever asked to bring them in on this case.

Darien and Helena took her limo to a nearby hotel. Darien was trying to relax so he wouldn't trigger the Quicksilver. But he was dreading having to get intimate with her.

"I'll just go and freshen up," she excused herself once they got to a very nice room.

"Guys, I don't suppose knowing he smuggled supplies for them is enough information?" Darien spoke quietly into his mic.

"Come on, Alex, let’s let him get out of there,". Bobby tried to help his partner out.

"Give him a few more minutes, he might get her to divulge enough information for us to issue a warrant for Stark's arrest." Alex looked almost as uncomfortable with Darien's situation as Bobby did.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien paced, trying to decide on a plan for Helena’s return.

"I'm back, Darien. I've been looking forward to this all day," she said, coming up behind him and sliding her arms around his narrow waist.

He turned inside her arms to face her, and she reached up to kiss him. He did his best to feign a convincing response, letting mental images of his favorite actresses flash in front of his mind’s eye to provide inspiration.

They kissed for several minutes, Darien all the while working hard to keep the Quicksilver under control, praying that his partners would find a way to get him out of this situation before he accidentally revealed a classified secret by vanishing in the middle of making love.

It wasn't so much that he was particularly turned on, he was far too nervous that she might discover his secret for that to be the problem. But either way, adrenaline was raging through his bloodstream, and regardless of the cause, the end result was the same.

"You have a magnificent build. Let me see more of it," she requested, stepping back to sit on the edge of the bed.

Darien half smiled and began to undress, first his jacket, then he slowly unbuttoned his shirt.

Helena watched admiringly as he disrobed, and beckoned him to sit beside her, then moved to touch his chest, and as she stroked her hand over him the Quicksilver began to flow.

"Ah, crap," Darien groaned as his left leg and most of his abdomen vanished from sight.

Helena shrieked, her eyes wide with fright, then she passed out.

"Guys, you'd better get up here fast," Darien said into the now silent room, knowing the mic would transmit the request to his partners.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Four

 

"Crap," Alex ripped off her headset and pulled open the van door. Bobby was right behind her.

When they entered the hotel room, Darien was standing in the middle of the room, his shirt open, but not off. For the second time in as many nights, Helena was passed out on the bed.

"Good job, Darien, at this rate we are never going to get the information we need from her," Alex berated him.

"It wasn't my fault! She saw the Quicksilver and fainted," he protested.

"Don't worry about it, partner, I have a back up plan." Bobby flipped open in cell phone and dialed rapidly. "Yeah, Claire do you still have any of that Beta-C stuff lying around?"

"Why?" Claire asked suspiciously on the other end of the line. "I’ve been working to modify the dose and the toxic effects, but it is still dangerous. I’m not sure how useful it will be when used in standard interrogation."

"I don’t think we have any choice, here, Claire. I think we're going to need some. We're on the way in."

"Alright, I’ll have a dose ready. Have you cleared it with the Official?"

"Ah, not yet, see ya soon," Hobbes avoided the question by hanging up hurriedly.

"Hobbes, that would be kidnapping," Alex reminded him.

"Yeah, well, do you want to get the info on Stark or not? Inviso-boy, here, is outta the running as a Romeo. You think she’s gonna tell him anything after his little accident? Besides, Fawkes just blew his cover big time in the gland department. Protocol says we find out what she knows about him. If she’s been doing business with your pal Stark, he may have told her about Fawkes. I can see Fidel just loving to get his hands on my partner," Bobby pointed out.

"It wasn’t my fault!" Darien griped, turning his puppy dog eyes on first Hobbes, then Alex.

"Yeah, well, you coulda mentioned your little problem before you agreed to try the seduction angle, pal," Bobby said, not falling for the look.

"Alright, enough, both of you. Darien, you are going to have to put her in the van without her driver seeing either of you."

"That I can do," he agreed, relieved beyond words that this time, invisibility would be deliberate.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Claire was waiting for them when Darien carried Helena into the Keep.

"This is the person you want to use the Beta C on?" She was appalled that they were carrying in a middle-aged woman.

"Believe me, Claire, this is the only option," Bobby tried to persuade her. "She saw Darien Quicksilver and knows way too much about him for us to just let her run off and tell her husband and anyone else who would listen."

"I'll have to check her vital signs first. We can't risk this if she isn't up to the stress it will place on her system." Claire began to check Helena for pulse, blood pressure and heart sounds.

Bobby had brought along a recording device from the van and he was setting it up beside the exam table. Alex was worried, but she was keeping her mouth shut for the moment

Darien moved in close to his partner. "Thanks man, I really appreciate you coming up with a back-up plan."

"No, problem, I can relate," Hobbes said, busy with the equipment.

"Yeah? You had to seduce a lady that wasn't exactly Miss America?" Darien grinned. He'd never heard this story before.

"Let's just say she was a very important Russian scientist who we needed information from." Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Got ya. Thanks man, I’d just as soon not have a story like that to remember in my old age."

Alex paced over to Helena and Claire. "So do you think we can do this?"

"She seems healthy enough. What caused her to faint?" Claire looked up from her patient.

"Darien Quicksilvered when they were alone together. I guess it was too much of a shock for her," Alex explained.

"I see."

Alex ignored the speculative lift of Claire s eyebrow.

Passing up the opening Alex had just given her to find out what Darien had been doing alone with a nightgown-clad matron, she went on: "You do realize that she'll probably speak in her natural language once we give her the drug. Are you fluent in Spanish?"

"Yes, but we're going to record everything, too." Alex nodded towards Bobby and the data recorder.

"Alright then, I’m assuming you have cleared this with the Official." Claire walked over to the cold storage and retrieved the vial of Beta C.

"Ah, no I haven't but he did give his permission for Darien and Bobby to assist me with this case. They are on loan for a few days. So I don't think he'd have a problem with you helping us as well." Alex stretched the truth a little.

"It's OK, Claire, he wants us to help her out," Bobby added.

Clearly not entirely convinced by their arguments, Claire prepped the syringe. "Get ready. This usually has a strong effect." She injected the Beta C and then waved smelling salts under Helena's nose.

"Where am I?" She blinked open her eyes and looked up at Claire and Alex.

"I'm a doctor. You passed out," Claire informed her, taking her pulse again.

Alex moved a step closer to the exam table and asked. "Helena, what can you tell me about Jared Stark?"

"Jared? He is a good man. He helped us with the money."

"Money? Tell me about the money," Alex continued to question her.

Claire stepped back and Bobby asked her: "I thought you said she would speak in her native language?"

"She may have grown up using both English and Spanish from the start, not learning one before the other," Claire explained.

Bobby nodded. Darien was watching, but as long as Alex got the information she needed, he wasn't paying close attention to what Helena was saying.

"Claire, isn't one of the after-effects of this that she won't remember being questioned?" That was what Claire claimed about her experience with the drug. That she didn't remember much about what had happened.

"Yes, but I can also do a little memory altering with her once Alex is done questioning her."

"Memory altering?" Darien grinned. "What's that?"

"It's kind of like a post-hypnotic suggestion. If we tell her not to remember being questioned when she is still under the influence of the drug, she won't." Claire explained. "It's kind of a bonus side effect."

Bobby was listening to her explanation, but he was remembering when he'd found her and Darien on the docks that day. He'd been so freaked at their behavior, he'd wanted to beat the crap out of his partner.

Alex continued to grill Helena for almost an hour. She learned all kinds of interesting information on the counterfeiting plans, but the only thing she learned about Stark was that he'd been helping them set up the counterfeit distribution. It didn't sound like he was planning to move to Helena's home country.

"Okay, I think I've got all the information we’re going to get. Claire, is there another shot you have to give her to turn her off?" Alex joined the three on the far side of the lab.

"Yes, and a few suggestions about forgetting what has just happened."

"Darien, we're going to have to put her back in bed at the hotel," Alex warned him.

"I can handle that, so long as I don't have to ah, get into it with her." He shook his head.

"Dodged the bullet on that one, buddy," Bobby smirked.

"Did you get the proof you needed on Stark?" Darien asked.

"Yes and no. He didn't do anything illegal enough for it to be a federal case, but we will shut down the Cuban connection. She did give me a few ideas about where to look next to set a trap for him," Alex frowned.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Alex, we need to talk," Darien stuck his head in the door of Alex’s office in the Treasury building. It was the day following the embassy mission, but he was obviously still worried about her.

"Fawkes, what are you doing here?" Alex hadn't expected him to come to her office. He'd phoned twice but she hadn't returned the calls.

She knew what he wanted and she didn't have any answers for him. Darien closed the door and walked over to stand before her desk. "Have you, you know, checked things out with a doctor? I'm sure Claire would be willing to have a look...."

"No, I'm fine really. It was just stress." She tried to blow it off.

"How can you be sure if you don't get it checked out?" He really was worried about her.

Alex sighed. She wasn't use to anyone caring about her, and it was kind of nice, but strange just the same.

"I'm really kind of busy here, Darien, maybe we could talk about this another time?" She returned to the work on her desk.

"NO, no, I'm not letting you brush me off again." He came around the desk and lifted her up out of the chair. "Like it or not, Alex, people are concerned about you _. I'm_  concerned about you."

They locked gazes for a few seconds. Darien had never been upset like this over her before. She wondered why he was now.

Darien blinked and loosened his hold on her, rubbing her arms with his palms where he'd just grasped them in his haste to gain her attention. "Sorry, but I am worried about you; you can't just blow this off. Claire can keep it quiet. No one has to know, not the Official or the Treasury Department," He tried to persuade her. "Alex, you can't mess around when it comes to your health. I know, I took mine for granted before Kevin played Doctor and now it's my biggest problem."

"Darien, I understand that you're concerned. But do you realize that if Claire finds something, almost anything really, my career could be over? There will be no way for me to keep tabs on James. I could never handle that. My career is my life," Alex confessed.

"But it might not be anything bad, and if it is, she can treat you," he argued. "Alex, you're playing Russian roulette with your health, here."

"That's nothing new for me. Hobbes and I knew the risks when we signed on. We weren't tricked into it like you were."

"You won't go see Claire and let her check you over?" He sounded so serious. She wasn't used to this tone from him.

"No, I won't." She looked up into his dark eyes, seeing he was truly concerned for her. But she couldn't do what he wanted. Not if meant losing the opportunity to get back her son. She would die before giving up whatever hope remained.

Darien had considered what he would do if she refused. He'd thought about bringing Claire along and drugging her like he had when Bobby had been flipping out after being infected with a super-virus at the college. But that would attract too much attention in her current office. Claire was right, if Alex didn't want help, he couldn't force it on her.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"She wouldn't go for it, would she?" Bobby asked once Darien returned to the van.

"No, she won't see Claire or anyone else." Darien sounded very down and worried.

"Look we'll just have to keep checking on her. Between the two of us we'll convince her." Bobby tried to reassure him. "Meanwhile we'll have Claire check into possibilities. Maybe it really is just stress."

"I hope you're right; I hope we can change her mind." Darien slouched in his seat and Bobby started up the van.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag

 

"Gentlemen, I understand your work with Miss Monroe was completed. They were pleased with the information you helped obtain. A major counterfeiting ring will be derailed due to your assist on the case." The Official was praising them for once.

"Thank you, Sir." Bobby inclined his head.

"Yeah, it's nice to hear we did a good job." Darien was still drinking his morning coffee.

"There is, however, the matter of the use of an Agency asset that was not part of the deal made with the Department of Treasury," Eberts added. He handed the Official a file, open to a page full of numbers.

"It seems you two took it upon yourselves to make available for this mission our most secret ace in the hole. Beta C. Dr. Keeply has been adjusting it since we acquired it from Gaither. But it wasn't supposed to be available to other agencies with out their paying a handsome price for it." He sounded like he was trying to control his temper.

Darien and Bobby exchanged a look, knowing they were in trouble now.

"Sir, may I point out that you didn't share that information with us when you assigned us to assist Agent Monroe...." Bobby lifted a finger to make his point.

"I don't tell you two everything." The Official snapped. "Besides, I loaned Treasury my agents, not my latest experimental interrogation drugs!"

"The money that we could have charged for the use of the Beta C will have to taken from your paychecks," Eberts looked pleased as he said this.

"But Sir!" Bobby started, dismayed that once again his pay would be docked.

"It's on me, partner. Eberts, take all of that from my paycheck." Darien didn't care what it cost, particularly since he was still going to be collecting the rental fee he’d begun charging for the space the gland used in his head. He was just glad he didn't have to, well, it didn’t bear thinking about.

"That's not necessary," Bobby pretended to protest.

"No, it's fine. I'm the one that dodged the bullet on this one," Darien reminded his partner that he hadn't been too keen on sleeping with the target.

"Oh, yeah right." Bobby winked.

The Official looked displeased. He'd been all set to explain to Bobby why they had to take the money from his paycheck, again. "Well other than the use of the Agency asset without permission, you did a good job. I've heard favorable things from Miss Monroe and her superiors."

"You hear that partner? We did good." Bobby smiled.

"Don't let my praise go to your head, gentlemen. I expect you both to start thinking about the Agency bottom-line from now on. No more giving away our assets." The Official warned them.

"Yes. We will be able to make the budget, with the added money loaning out Agent Monroe brings in, but we can't afford to just give away your services, or anything else," Eberts reiterated.

"Don't worry about me, I'm not planning to volunteer for anything else," Darien promised.

"You know what they always say in the service, partner, never volunteer for anything." Bobby ticked with his tongue and nodded.

"Point taken," Darien nodded back.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Alex hadn't gotten the proof she wanted to put Stark away, but she was less worried that he might be taking James out of the country. I might not have been able to get her to talk to me about whatever it was that was going on with her, but as John Churton Collins once said, ‘In prosperity our friends know us, in adversity we know our friends.’ We just wanted Alex to know that she had friends that cared._

 

 

End


	7. Just Because You're Paranoid (season 3, episode 7)

Episode Seven

Just Because You're Paranoid

  by pipsqueak and Suz

Inspired by an idea by SuzyH

 

 

Teaser

 

Darien took a long pull from his beer bottle and slumped a little deeper into the vinyl-upholstered booth he shared with his partner, Bobby Hobbes. "Is it just me, or has it been like the longest week in history?" he asked as he set his drink on the battered wooden table.

Robert A. Hobbes eyed his own bottle as he swirled the last few foamy inches around the bottom. "What did you expect, huh, Fawkes? Every nut case in the county was just waitin' for 9/11 to make some kinda statement. I dunno why you're surprised," he sighed, as tired as his partner.

"I'm not surprised, but jeeze. It's over a month since the anniversary of September 11th. Why'd they all pick  _this_  week to come outta the woodwork?" Darien scratched at the cascade-emblazoned label with his thumb until the only thing left legible of the  _Sierra Falls_ brand name was the two capital letters. He sighed deeply, set his bottle down, and rose. "Gotta use the facilities," he informed his partner when Bobby glanced up at his towering partner curiously.

"What, you want me to come hold your hand or something?" Hobbes asked a little sarcastically. "I told you not to drink that piss water," he admonished, brandishing his Corona as a visual rebuke. Darien scowled and strode away.

Fawkes' weary complaint had struck a nerve with Hobbes, though he refused to let it show, focusing disinterestedly on the distant TV over the bar as his partner disappeared, without the help of his biosynthetically engineered gland for once. The six o'clock news was droning away in near silence from this distance, but the subtitles below the various speakers were certainly readable. Not that he cared, especially. At least not until the FBI's newest anti-terrorist unit's spokesman appeared, apparently with a similar complaint to Fawkes'. Bobby straightened in his seat, straining to hear the newscaster's spiel over the muted din of the 5:00 p.m. bar crowd.

Darien stepped out of the men's room and returned to the booth where Hobbes was sitting, elbows on the table, intent on the TV a good 30 feet away behind the bar counter. Sliding into his place, Darien looked back over his shoulder to try and see what it was that had captured his partner's attention. The set was inaudible from this distance, but it was large enough that he could read the captions under each speaker. It was more bad news about the government's seeming inability to effectively recognize and act on information that could have prevented the 9/11 tragedies. The local news stations were going to town with this particular story, though, based as it was in San Diego.

"Jeeze, Fawkes," Bobby didn't even blink an eye at Darien's return, which all in all didn't surprise his partner. It was almost as if Hobbes had an internal radar and no matter how intently he might seem focused on one thing, he was always able to anticipate the movements of those around him. "Can you believe it?" Bobby continued to grouse, waving a hand towards the TV. "Right in our own backyard, of all places. One of them damn terrorists was living right here in San Diego and his  _roommate_  was an FBI informant...."

"You mean they knew?" Darien was clearly shocked by the news. Living most of his life on the wrong side of the law, he had never thought of himself as a patriot, but like most Americans, he had been shocked and outraged by the destruction and death inflicted on the nation a little over a year ago. The fact that he and Hobbes had visited Ground Zero not more than a month previously only served to freshen the wound for a man who was still coming to terms with his own evolving role in protecting the public.

"They had the intel, but it got lost in channels," Bobby shook his head in disgust. "Nobody had the brains to fast track it. I swear, Fawkes, I don't know who they got working there any more. Bunch o'monkeys, it seems like. Nobody's willing to stand up and make the brass listen to what's really important anymore. Everybody's doing the Jonesy act: 'yes, sir,' 'no, sir'. More concerned about their career than the safety of this nation." He took a long swig of the pale amber brew, then banged his bottle on the table. "I tell you, back in the day, I woulda been all over that information. But then I've got the background from the military where we learned to identify the right info quick or get blown up. Not like them college boys they got over there these days, don't know their ass from their elbows. Scares me to think the kinda suits they're gonna be staffing that new CTD with...."

"You really want in on that, don't you?" Fawkes asked at last, reaching across the table to touch Bobby's forearm lightly, jerking his own head slightly in the direction of the TV. Once before, Hobbes had voiced his frustration at being relegated to the position of onlooker for the FBI's new Counter Terrorist Intelligence Division, formed in response to the events of a year before. At the time, he had put Hobbes' desire down to the immediacy of their visit to Ground Zero. Now he suspected there was a stronger impetus behind Hobbes' yearning than just the impact of seeing the devastation wrought by a handful of madmen.

Hobbes shrugged noncommittally as he focused on his partner once again. "About as bad as you want that gland outta your head," he answered, with a light knock of his knuckles to Darien's forehead. "And it doesn't look like either of us will be getting what we want anytime soon."

"Well, at least you can apply, Hobbes," Darien suggested dryly. "I just gotta sit around and wait, and hope Claire figures it out."

Hobbes snorted derisively. "Yeah, but at least you know Claire's working on it, not tossin' her research into the toilet, which is exactly where the Feds would put my application. Nah, looks like we're both gonna be stranded at The Agency for the foreseeable future there, Gilligan." Bobby rapped his bottle against Darien's, the resulting clink sounding strangely mournful amidst the raucous sounds of happy hour still in full swing.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

::Cue Theme Music::

**There once was a tale about a guy who could turn invisible. I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me. OK, so here's how it works: There's this stuff called 'Quicksilver' that can bend light. My brother and some scientists made it into a synthetic gland, and that's where I came in. See, I was facing life in prison and they were looking for a human experiment. So we made a deal; they put the gland in my brain, and I walk free. The operation was a success... but that's when everything started to go wrong.**

::Music Fade Out::

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act One

 

The door to the Official's office opened and disgorged a steady stream of the room's former occupants. Claire was the first to emerge, happily humming a light British air, then came Alex, her lovely face as stony and enigmatic as the famous bust of Nefertiti. The two women were followed by Eberts, whose normally bland expression was lit by a cherubic smile. Darien, dragging his feet like a sulky five-year-old, and Hobbes, frowning as though he'd just caught his teenage daughter kissing on the first date, brought up the rear in stark contrast to the rest.

"Come, Robert, the file room awaits," Eberts announced, turning down the hall with a wave of his hand.

"Dream on,  _Eberts_ ," Hobbes snarled back. "Bobby Hobbes has better things to do than push papers for this penny-ante outfit."

"Oh what? All of a sudden you're too good to work here like the rest of us?" Darien whinged at his diminutive partner half-heartedly. "I mean, seriously, if I've gotta go play pin cushion for Claire, the least you can do is spend some quality time with Eberts like the 'Fish ordered you to. Frankly I think you got the better end of the deal." Darien bent his rangy frame down and playfully poked Bobby in the gut. "Get over it, Hobbes; it's not like you've got a sweeter gig waiting in the wings. After all, you said it yourself yesterday -- the CTD ain't suddenly gonna come knocking on your door now, is it?"

"What's  _that_  supposed to mean?" Hobbes snarled, his eyes going cold and his hands automatically clenching into fists as he instinctively pushed back at Darien's personal space.

"Whoa, whoa, hold on there, tiger. It was just a rhetorical question. I didn't mean anything by it." Darien held up his hands in surrender and backed up slowly. "Man, what is eating you? You gotta calm down, take some yoga or something...."

"Calm? Calm? I am calm -- cool as a cucumber as a matter of fact." Bobby shook his hands as he unclenched his fists. "And yoga's got nothin' to do with it, though I tell you Ashtanga gives you one helluva stretch. I mean, I was sweating my butt off.... "

Monroe let out a soft snort. "You? Yoga? Somehow I'm not seeing it."

Claire shot Alex a lethal glare. "Well, I can. One just has to take a good look at his physique to know that he's concentrated on building both muscle  _and_  flexibility, haven't you, Bobby?"

A red flush crept up Hobbes' neck and ears until it encircled the crown of skin visible above his hairline. "Ah, yes, actually. Nice of you to notice, Claire." He absently stuck a finger in his ear and scratched while shuffling his feet. "My shrink at the FBI thought yoga would help me with my anger management."

Now that the danger of bodily harm was past, Darien stepped close to Hobbes again and asked softly, "So uh, are you  _ever_  going to tell us why you left?"

"Oh, please, I got the shaft. It was totally bogus -- I mean, if they're gonna restrict you in your choice of spiritual centers, they really ought to tell you that in the beginning, not ban you after the fact, in my opinion..."

"Wait a minute -- you're saying the FBI let you go because you were taking yoga?" Monroe's jaw was about three inches from the floor.

"What? No, no," Hobbes shook his head. "That's why I couldn't go back to Ashtanga classes. I mean, don't get me wrong, I was  _good_ , real good. At the top of my game with getting them asanas down pat. But when it came to the meditation, apparently my teacher didn't think my choice of location was appropriate for uniting my soul with the divine."

It was Darien's turn to shake his head. "You got  _expelled_  from yoga class because they didn't like your 'happy place'?"

Bobby rubbed his head. "Yeah, well, like I said, they really should have told us in the first place...." Eberts unintentionally snickered, and Hobbes froze. When the rest of the group picked up the bemused chuckling, he turned on his heel and began stalking down the hall. "Fine. I'll see you all  _later_."

Darien jogged after his partner. "Hey, Hobbesy, wait up, don't be like that." He grabbed Hobbes shoulder and turned the shorter man to him. "You can't just leave us hanging. You at least gotta clue us in on where this magical place is. I mean, it didn't involve unicorns, did it?" Darien gave a lopsided grin.

Hobbes shrugged off Darien's hand at the group's renewed giggling. "Fine, you wanna know? It was the shooting range, alright? Which is exactly where you can find me when you're through playing footsy with your pals over there." Hobbes frustration was apparent in the hard click of his heels against the floor as he turned away and strode purposefully down the hall. "I'll be damned if I'm gonna waste my time as a back-up file clerk, 'Fish or no 'Fish. We got a lull in cases? Then I'm using my down time like any real agent would and getting in some target practice. I may be a Fed washout, but I still got a few things to teach you about the spook biz there, Junior." The last part was shot through the Agency's swinging exit doors. "Come see me when you're finally ready to learn."

"Oh, well done, Darien," Claire commented dryly. "You know he's sensitive about why he left the FBI. Did you have to push him like that?"

"Me push him? Excuse me, missy, but from where I was standing it looked more like he was pushing me. And as far as what I know about Hobbes and the FBI goes, I don't know anything.  _That's_  the problem. Crap, I'm his  _partner_ , and Eberts and Monroe probably know more about his past than I do."

Eberts cleared his throat. "Ah, actually, Darien, I know very little more than you do. Robert was already a deep cover operative when I arrived at the Agency. Despite my repeated attempts to organize his files, his service records are in such disarray that I have yet to successfully glean any pertinent information on the subject of his dismissal. On the few occasions I thought to query the Official regarding his reasons for hiring such a ... volatile employee, his answer was always the same..."

"Shut up, Eberts," the others chorused.

Darien's eyes fell on Monroe. "That leaves you -- so spill it."

Alex looked at the floor and shuffled her feet. "Actually, I'm pretty much as clueless about Bobby's exit from the FBI as everyone else is."

"Oh please," Darien crossed his arms and planted himself in front of her. "You were pretty quick to spout off a whole bunch of crap about Hobbes the first time we all met, remember?"

"Ah yeah, and as you so  _love_  to point out every chance you get, most of my intel on the two of you was just that -- crap," Alex shot back, glaring first at Darien and then at Eberts. "It seems  _somebody_  set up bogus records for you and Hobbes, and the counterfeit files were good enough to fool even my sources."

Eberts hugged his file folders tighter and grinned impishly at Monroe. Darien chuckled and slapped his co-worker on the back. "Yeah, man, I really got a kick out of that armed robbery charge!" His good-natured guffaw ended in a loud snort.

Alex feigned laughter. "Of course, now that I've actually seen you handle a gun, I realize just how ridiculous the image of you as an armed bandit really is," she added acidly.

"While this is all very entertaining, people," Claire's droll tones interrupted the snipe fest, "it's not getting us any closer to figuring out what is upsetting Bobby."

"Frankly, I'd have thought he'd have told you before any of us," Alex retorted.

Roses stained Claire's porcelain cheeks. "Yes, he has on occasion confided in me," she said blandly, "strictly on a professional level, you understand." Her cheeks flared a fiercer shade red as her three co-workers all rolled their eyes. "But he has not indicated to me recently that anything in particular was upsetting him enough to explain his behavior this morning."

"What? You mean  _you_  don't know anything about Bobby's background either?" Darien turned to the blonde doctor. "You're the head doc for the Agency. You've got access to everyone's records, I thought ..."

"That's true, Darien," Claire explained, "I most certainly do have a complete physical and psychological history of Bobby, as I do for all of you." She looked around at her audience, each of whom failed to meet her eyes. "But just because I have access to Bobby's medical records doesn't mean I have access to his service history. He's been involved in some very high level, classified missions -- even some of his medical records are more blacked-out than elucidative." Claire ran a hand across her brow, continuing along to tuck a strand of golden hair behind her ear. "Though most of the information I have seen suggests that he was terminated as the result of a significant psychological break."

Darien leaned back against a wall. Crossing his long legs, he pulled out a stick of gum, leisurely unwrapped it and began chewing pensively. "So you're telling me that Hobbes was such a kick-ass agent that the Feds trusted him with some of their most top-secret cases and  _then_  cashed him out on a Section 8 without a second thought?" He scratched his chin absently. "Wouldn't they have tried to rehabilitate such a valuable asset rather than just toss him?"

"Sure," Alex stated firmly. "Unless they felt he was unsalvageable. Then they'd have had no choice but to cut their losses."

"C'mon, Alex. You've seen Hobbes at work. Does he look like a washed-up agent to you?"

"No," Alex shook her head.

"But Darien, you don't know what mental state Bobby was in when he was dismissed," Claire pointed out.

"Please, it's Hobbes we're talking about here. Granted he may be a mass of annoying paranoias, but you can't tell me he was so bad he couldn't do his job. The only time he even came close was during that postal gig, and then he was helped along by Captain Chaos' magic Christmas potion."

"Yes, Darien, that's exactly what I'm telling you. As I pointed out to you then, that was not the first episode Bobby had ever had. He has a long history of mental troubles," Claire frowned but forged on, "and it is entirely possible that at one point he was unable to handle his case load."

Darien stared hard at his friend. Claire was smart, smarter than anyone he'd ever known besides Kevin. But nobody knew Bobby better than he did. And if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that to Bobby Hobbes being an agent was a sacred duty. Darien couldn't imagine that Hobbes would ever have allowed personal issues to get so out of hand, but then he hadn't known Bobby back then. Darien shook his head and blew softly out of his nose. "Fine, Claire. But if what you say is true, then there's another question that needs answering."

"What's that?" came a small voice from the back of the hall. Darien, Claire and Alex turned as one to stare at Eberts who'd been so quiet he'd been practically forgotten by his co-workers.

"What kind of case would it take to really crack Bobby Hobbes?"

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_There's an old saying: "I'm from Missouri, show me." Which I guess is a reference to how hard it is to get people from Missouri to take anything at face value. Which really isn't true, 'cuz I've conned a few people from that fair state and trust me, they're pretty much rubes. Anyway, my point is, after being Officialed on more than one occasion, I've learned to take that saying to heart. Sure, Eberts, Monroe, and Claire had no reason to lie to me about not knowing anything about Bobby's past, but I still wanted to see for myself._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Silence reigned in the halls of the Agency -- not the understaffed hush of its daylight hours, but the peaceful solitude of deep night. Into the silence a soft humming intruded, faint at first, but getting progressively louder as it approached the file room keypad.

"You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen," the disembodied voice sang falsetto. Invisible fingers pressed the correct combination on the keypad and the door slid open.

Stepping inside the room, Darien let the Quicksilver slide from his form. Placing a Maglite in his mouth, he began searching for the section of shelves that held the life and times of Bobby Hobbes. Locating the first file box, he pulled off the top and dove in.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Three hours later, Darien lay sprawled on his back on the floor, scanning yet another performance appraisal. All about him, multi-colored papers from case reports, psych evaluations, and competency hearings were strewn about, most with whole sections blocked out in thick black marker. Here and there, pictures dotted the mix: a smiling Hobbes playing golf with Yassir Arafat in what looked to be the world's biggest sand trap; Hobbes dirty dancing with a truly stunning redhead in a Soviet uniform; a 20-something Hobbes -- with significantly more hair, Darien noted -- in fatigues surrounded by a squad of even younger Marines outside the American Embassy in Beirut. But for all his time spent immersing himself in the remnants of Hobbes' past, Darien was no closer to finding out what had actually been the final straw that had broken Hobbes' back at the FBI.

Darien took the Maglite from his mouth and sighed as he put down the wad of files he'd been holding. He sat up and looked around at the mess he'd made of Hobbes' records -- it was going to take him at least another three hours to put everything back in the meticulous order in which Eberts kept it. Despite the little neat freak's assertions to the contrary, he'd actually taken the time to go through Hobbes' files and color-code them. Darien shook his head as he surveyed page after page that had been marked with highlighter in the upper left-hand corner. Getting to his knees, he began sorting the debris. "OK, time for Plan B."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien hustled down the hall like a high school student worried about receiving his penultimate tardy slip. When he reached the polished wood door marked " 341," he stopped. Adjusting his frayed blue gas station attendant's jacket and bright red cowboy shirt, along with his face, to reflect the punk persona he was infamous for, he knocked once, then swung open the door.

"Hey, Alex, good morning," he sauntered into the office as if he belonged there.

"Fawkes, what the hell are you doing here?" came Alex's caustic greeting as she swung her Manolo Blanick-clad feet from the top of her sleek, Euro-style desk to the floor in one smooth arc. She put her cream-colored Limoges coffee cup down on her pristine, leather-trimmed desk blotter and frowned at him. "You're supposed to be in the lab with Claire...."

"Oh yeah, that," Darien cocked his head as if he was suddenly recalling a lost appointment. "I'll, ah, go do that a little later, when I'm finished here...."

"Oh, you are finished here," Alex told him. He opened his mouth to protest and she held up a hand. "No, no, whatever it is, I  _so_  do not want to know about it. I want absolutely no part in your latest scheme to avoid whatever tests Claire wants to run on you this week. I mean, I understand you not wanting to play lab rat, really I do, but you know what? You've got a $17 million gland in your head that  _makes_  you a lab rat. So just suck it up for once and take it like a man." She walked around her desk, the creases falling magically out of her pearl silk Marc Jacobs pantsuit, and made shooing motions at him.

"This is not about Claire or her tests," Darien answered vehemently. "It's about Hobbes. And lay off the lab rat bit, a'ight?"

Alex stopped shooing and looked up into earnest, dark eyes. "What about Hobbes?"

Darien pursed his lips and looked down at the tiny agent. She could be so fierce sometimes, it was like trying to wrestle a hurricane. But he'd also seen her fragile side -- it had taken too damn long for her to let her guard down and trust him, and it had almost driven her over the edge to her own mental breakdown. Now it was time for some payback, and the question he had to answer in his own mind was did he really trust her? But with Hobbes' future hanging in the balance the only answer he could come up with was that he really didn't have any choice but to. If he was going to get anywhere he needed Alex and her contacts. "Look, Alex," he said at last, "I need your help."

Alex favored him with a somber stare before asking quietly, "What do you need?"

"I need a copy of Bobby's complete file from the FBI ...."

Alex let out a surprised breath. "For the love of God, Fawkes, I thought you were  _serious_."

"I  _am_  serious. I need to know what happened, why the Feds hung Bobby out to dry ...."

"No, no," Alex shook her head and flopped back down in her chair, "you don't  _need_  to know, you  _want_  to know. This isn't about Bobby at all. This about you being bored and wanting to satisfy your morbid curiosity."

"Dammit, Alex, no, it's  _not_ ," Darien exploded with a fist to her desk for emphasis, almost knocking her coffee over with the force of the blow. Alex's eyes were cold slits as she glared at him. He shook his hand and counted to 10 before he continued. "I'm sorry. But this is not about me, it's about Hobbes. You, me, we're both here because we choose to be. You've got your reasons, I've got mine. But Bobby, he's got no choice. Because  _they_  didn't give him one. And I need to know  _why_."

"Well, then stop bugging me and go chivvy Eberts," she replied coolly, transferring her coffee mug to the safety of her countertop. "I'm sure the whole sordid story is in Hobbes' Agency files."

"No, it's not. I, uh, checked." Darien sauntered over to her coffee table and began an intent study of her knickknacks.

Alex's eyes widened. "You asked Eberts to see Hobbes' files while Hobbes is stuck down there helping Eberts out in the file room?"

"Not exactly," Darien ducked his head slightly.

"What do you mean 'not exactly?'" Alex asked. "This isn't a car rental commercial."

Darien transferred his attention from the knickknacks to Alex's juicer on the counter near where she was standing. "I, uh, kinda took the scenic tour of Hobbes' personnel files myself ... last night ... after hours ..."

"Honestly, Fawkes, you are a piece of work, you know that? I cannot believe you would break into the Agency files and then come to me to help you get into more trouble. I seem to recall telling you that I specifically did not want to risk pissing off the Official and jeopardizing my chances to get James back ...."

He swung his eyes to look directly into hers. "And I seem to recall you asking for me and Hobbes to help you out of a jam at the Treasury." He narrowed his eyes slightly at her. "What goes around comes around."

"Not this time," Alex crossed her arms and set her chin. "Not for this."

"So you're refusing to help me?" He quirked one eyebrow while his lips resolved themselves into a firm line.

"No, I  _can't_  help you." Alex's ice blue eyes were impregnable.

Darien leaned on the counter, brought his face just inches from hers. "C'mon, I find it hard to believe that Alex Monroe's infamous Rolodex has finally come up dry -- particularly when you haven't even bothered to check it yet."

Alex stood firm, resolute. "What I'm telling you is that I'm not willing to call in that many favors just because you have some burning desire to go digging up the skeletons in Hobbes' past," Alex spoke slowly, precisely, as if she were explaining how clouds moved to a three-year old. "I'm sorry, but you're just gonna have to go with Plan B."

Darien closed his eyes and turned away from the counter. "You were Plan B," he mumbled, then added more loudly, "fine, I'll get his file on my own then."

"Good. Doing your own legwork for once like a real agent will be a good learning experience," she shot back as she came around the counter to escort him to the door. But as the tart comment hung in the air, her face softened and she reached a hand up to his shoulder. "Look, come back when you've got something solid. Show me that this really is about helping Hobbes and not just satisfying your own damn curiosity, and I  _will_  help you, OK?"

"Fine. But I still need you to help cover for me. You owe me that at least." He turned soft, yearning eyes in her direction.

Alex growled low in her throat. "Oh alright, alright already -- enough with the puppy dog eyes. I'll get the Official to assign you to me for a few days," she suddenly grinned like a cat who'd just eaten a canary. "Maybe I'll tell him that you need more CTS tutoring or some such."

"Oh gee, thanks, Alex," Darien griped on his way to the door, "so good to know that when the chips are down I can count on your help in my complete and total humiliation. Now do you think you can at least give me a clue where to look?" He stood, hand on the knob, waiting.

"Best guess? FBI Headquarters in Washington D.C., where all the master agent files are kept. If you're lucky, you just might be able to get your hands on a copy at the field office here, though, since that's where Hobbes served out of. But remember, Agent Phelps, if anything goes wrong, I'm going to disavow all knowledge of you and your actions."

" _Mission: Impossible_ , huh?" Darien mused, shutting the door quickly behind him as he added, "you always struck me as more of an  _Avengers_  type ...."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Another night, another B&E, Darien thought to himself as he approached the FBI building. He grinned as he switched shoulders on his backpack. God, it was almost like being back in the life -- except these days he had an extremely handy new tool for getting past security. Of course, now that he could Quicksilver with impunity, an awful lot of the fun had gone out of using it, a fact that had been driven home when he'd fulfilled his dream of invisibly robbing a bank and then found that he didn't really want the money. In that moment, he'd realized that for him being a thief had been about the challenge, not greed as he'd always supposed. It was the puzzle of how to get in and get out without getting caught that had fascinated him, not whatever bit of monetary gain he could recoup by fencing his ill-gotten goods. Once he'd realized that the Quicksilver had taken that challenge away, being a thief simply didn't have the same allure it once did. Just another way in which Kevin and the damn gland had screwed him over, he thought ruefully.

Not that breaking into the FBI presented a major challenge anyway. After all, he'd broken in twice before and raided their BFM files with Hobbes' assistance -- once to help Claire overcome the effects of a nocturnal brainwashing, the other time more recently when he'd been challenged by Hobbes to solve one of the little tiger's old cases. That had led him to more than a few discoveries of how hard it had been for Hobbes to maintain his professional reputation at the Bureau after being forced by his superiors to participate in a political cover-up of a crime Hobbes had actually solved. The betrayal and subsequent mud-slinging campaign by his former partner, Jones, had only made Hobbes' position even more tenuous. In a way, it had also set Darien on the path here tonight. The knowledge of how much of his own moral code Hobbes had been forced to swallow in the line of duty only served to increase Darien's resolve to give his partner the second chance Hobbes deserved.

Darien invisibly sauntered down halls he had once trod as a bona fide FBI agent. It had not been the happiest time in his life despite finally being freed of the Quicksilver madness. For all his problems with the Agency, at least he was taken seriously by the people there. In their own way, they all trusted him and appreciated his unique insights into the minds of the criminals they hunted -- even Monroe had finally come around. But first and foremost it had been Hobbes who had realized that Darien could be more than just the punk thief everyone had him pegged as. It had been Hobbes who had mentored Darien so skillfully that the proselyte hadn't even realized he'd been learning how to be an effective agent from the moment they'd first met.

But there had been no Hobbes at the FBI when Darien was there -- nor had there been any trust. For Brookes and his gang, Darien had simply been the latest in a long line of high-tech tools to be used when and how they wanted. It hadn't taken him long to figure out that he didn't belong with them and just a little longer to swallow his pride and return to Hobbes and the Agency.

And so now he got a perverse thrill out of rifling through the Feds' classified files. He'd headed straight for the Personnel department once he'd broken into the building and was now in the process of trying to locate Hobbes' files. Unfortunately, he couldn't make hide nor hair of the filing system, and he didn't have Hobbes in his ear this time guiding him through remotely. By the fifth filing cabinet, he was stymied. At this rate, it was going to take him the better part of a week to locate Hobbes' records.

Inspiration struck when he spotted a sleek black Dell sitting on the desk in the nearest cubicle. Seating himself in the desk chair, Darien de-Quicksilvered so he could see his hand when he moved the trackball. The computer booted and when the log-in screen appeared, he thought for a moment, shrugged, typed 'dgfawkes' as his ID and 'goldenboy' as his password and then hit enter. When the FBI's intranet portal screen appeared, he knew he was in. Apparently the FBI's IT department was a bit more lax about deleting unused log-ins than the Agency's resident computer whiz was. Now he just needed to put some of that hacker training he'd received from Eberts to work.

Pushing the envelope of his computer knowledge, Darien surfed the FBI's network, taking a detour or two through the candidate referral and job opening sections before finally surprising himself and uncovering a fairly obvious back-door into the HR records by pretending he wanted to adjust a 401(k) allocation. Just as he pulled up Hobbes' payroll records, the lights flipped on in the office. Darien swung his chair around and looked up to face three guards approaching from different corridors, each aiming a .45 right at his head.

"Ah crap," he sighed.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien slouched in the cushy leather conference room chair. He still wore his thief's black outfit, rumpled from the night's activities, but he'd removed his stocking cap and his hair stuck out at wild angles. That, along with his morning's dose of chin stubble, made him resemble his mug shot far more closely than his Agency ID, which lay open on the glossy rosewood table. He scrubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands as the man seated opposite him resumed the interrogation.

"Alright, Agent Fawkes," Matt Brookes said, tapping a sleek gold fountain pen against a legal-sized yellow pad, "let's go through this one more time: you were hacking into the FBI's classified personnel files because ...?"

"Because I needed to see Hobbes' personnel file," Darien monotoned.

The Director of the FBI's San Diego office tapped his pen a few more times, then shifted in his chair and let out an exasperated sigh. "And you needed to see that because ...?"

"Look, Brookes, let's cut straight to the chase," Darien sat up and leaned towards his former supervisor. "I'm not happy at the Agency, particularly with the way they're treating my partner. So I came in here to do a little snooping around to see what I could use as a bargaining chip."

The older agent raised his eyebrows. "A bargaining chip?"

"Yeah, you know, some leverage for cutting a package deal to return."

"Return?" Brookes ceased his pen tapping.

"Here, to the FBI," Darien stabbed the conference table with one long finger. "Me and Bobby."

"Seems to me I've heard you sing that tune before." Once again Brookes' pen began its staccato rhythm against his legal pad. "What makes you think we'd be interested in having you back?"

Darien reached a lanky arm over the width of the table, picked up Brookes' coffee, and took a long swig. "You don't give a damn why I wanted to see that file. If you did, I'd be chillin' in protective custody on my way to Quantico. Instead, I'm sitting here having a coffee klatch with you. Hell, you haven't even called the Official. So I'm guessing you're looking to make some kind of deal."

"That's very perceptive of you, Agent Fawkes. It would appear you've had some training since your last tenure here." Brookes nodded in approval at Darien's assessment of the situation. "The fact is we're more than willing to renegotiate your deal with the FBI at anytime, but I'm afraid that as far as Agent Hobbes is concerned, that is most definitely off the table. I've taken the time to become more familiar with his record since he turned down our last invitation to join us as your partner, and I can confidently say no more offers will be forthcoming."

Darien took another swig of coffee. "Oh yeah? Why's that?"

"I'm afraid that information is  _classified_." Brookes smiled like a naughty toddler who'd just uttered his first dirty word.

"Well, guess what -- so am I," Darien gulped the last of the coffee and then replaced the now empty cup by Brookes' side. "And I'm not coming back without Hobbes. I told you it was a package deal."

"You might feel differently if you spent some time talking with Agent Jones. He used to be Hobbes' partner, you know, and I'm sure he could clear up some misconceptions you might have ...."

"Jones is a twit," Darien locked gazes with Brookes. "I wouldn't trust him with my laundry. I'd trust Hobbes with my life."

"Given his history, that might not be a wise decision." Brookes slid his pen into the inside breast pocket of his standard-issue blue suit jacket.

"Why don't you give me access to his files and let me decide for myself?"

Brookes clasped his hands over his yellow pad. "If I do, you'll renegotiate for a solo deal?"

"Yeah, sure, why not?" Darien stood, shrugging his shoulders. "But if I can prove Hobbes isn't the screw-up everyone here thinks he is, it's a package deal. You'll take him back -- maybe even offer him a gig at the CTD?"

"I'm not sure I'm willing to guarantee that -- it's a prime assignment ...."

"Hey, what are you worried about? If Hobbes is damaged goods like everyone keeps telling me he is, you'll never have to follow through on that end of the deal, right? And you'll have your very own one-trick-pony back at your beck and call." Darien Quicksilvered himself, leaving just his outstretched hand.

For a second Brookes looked askance at the ghostly hand floating before him, then he grimaced, gingerly took the hand in his own and shook.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Two

 

_I love to read, always have, ever since I was a kid. It was one of the few traits I shared with my brother. But while Kev always had his nose stuck in some science-y sorta text, I gravitated toward the adventure tales, like_ Treasure Island _or_ The Legend of Robin Hood _. As I got older, my tastes and my lifestyle changed, but books still played a big part. Hell, Umberto Ecco's_ The Name of the Rose _was really all that stood between me and totally losing it my second time in the joint. Another great suspense novel,_ The Bone Collector _, was what got me through the first time. I must have read the thing 15 times before my parole. That book ... man, that book could scare the living crap out of you. So what does all that have to with Hobbes' file? Well, let's just say ole' Hobbesy could have sued Jeff Deaver for plagiarism._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

A quick shower and a shave later, Darien was feeling decidedly more dapper in a clean pair of putty-colored jeans, a tight gold-print rayon button down, and his favorite tan leather jacket. He'd even donned his FBI-issue aviator-style sunglasses to complete his '70s super cool ensemble. Not for the first time, he pictured himself taking David Soul's place in his favorite childhood cop drama,  _Starsky and Hutch_ , and grinned.

Then he remembered the details of the mental, emotional and professional breakdown he'd seen documented in Hobbes' records and grimaced. He simply couldn't believe what he'd read -- Hutch would never have believed it of Starsky and he was not prepared to believe it of Hobbes without irrefutable proof that he'd gathered himself. And for that, he was going to need help.

"OK, Mrs. Peele, we need to ta ...." Darien came bursting halfway into Alex's office when the sight before him stole his voice.

The five-star superagent sat cross-legged at one end of her Italian leather couch, shoes forgotten on the floor, a grass-green milkshake in her hands. At the other end of the couch sat Eberts hefting what looked to be egg salad on wheat, a white cloth napkin protecting the chest of his habitual gray business suit, and his red  _Transformers_  lunchbox open on the table.

"What the ...," Darien gestured abstractly at his two co-workers. "Ah, I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" he finally managed to squeak out.

"Only lunch, Fawkes," Alex replied setting her shake on the coffee table. "You know, midday meal, occasionally shared with co-workers. It's a concept an eating machine such as yourself should be more than familiar with."

Regaining his posture, Darien quoted, "In the immortal words of Socrates, 'I know nothing except for my ignorance.'" He punctuated his words with a suggestive leer to heighten the wise-ass effect.

Alex unfolded her legs and slid her feet into impossibly high heels. "Coming from you, it sounds more like Sergeant Schultz. So your visit to the FBI last night was less than successful, huh?"

"Ah, not exactly," Darien did his impression of a bobblehead doll, sticking his hands in his pants pockets and bouncing to and fro on his long legs. The truth was that even after viewing Hobbes' master file, he'd walked away with more questions than answers.

Alex sighed. "Again with the 'not exactly'."

Eberts put down his sandwich and rose from his seat with righteous anger. "I take it from Miss Monroe's comments, Darien, that you've once again perpetrated an illegal ingress into the local FBI offices. Now while this is the sort of ... of ... of 'devil-may-care' stunt you are accustomed to undertaking, the fact that you have somehow managed to ensnare Miss Monroe in your nefarious scheme this time is simply ... simply ...  _unacceptable_!"

Darien turned to face his nebbishy nemesis with hands on hips. "Relax, Dad, I didn't pop her cherry or nothin' ..."

Eberts paled, eyes widening to saucers, and he dropped back down to the sofa, jerking the napkin from around his neck.

"Fawkes...," came Alex's hissed warning.

"She's completely intact -- 100 percent law-abiding, patriotic, government-issue agent," Darien finished with a hand flourish at her, making sure to stay just out of reach. Like Hobbes, she was a black-belt in numerous martial arts, most notably kick-boxing, as he'd seen her demonstrate much to the detriment of Chrysalis foes and his own Quicksilver mad ass on more than one occasion. He had no desire to repeat the experience.

Eberts took a moment to recover and then renewed his invective. "Nevertheless, I feel it is my duty at this juncture to point out that as per the Official's express instructions, you have been assigned to Miss Monroe's recognizance, ostensibly for additional," he threw a disappointed glance in Alex's direction, "CTS tutelage. As a result, she will be held responsible for any trouble you may precipitate."

Alex cleared her throat violently, and both men turned. "Thank you, Eberts," she inclined her head slightly in her would-be champion's direction, "but I am perfectly capable of protecting myself and making my own decisions. It'll be a cold day in hell before Fawkes here can con me into anything. Besides, as long as he left everything in order, the FBI will never know. No harm, no foul, right?"

Darien put a hand to the back of his neck and began rubbing, then became seemingly fascinated by the view showcased through the windows lining one wall of the office. "Ah, yeah, about that ...."

"Oh crap," was the stereo response.

"I, ah, kinda got caught." This admission elicited two extremely divergent reactions from his co-workers.

Alex smirked and shook her head, "I should have known you couldn't pull it off by yourself."

Eberts simply gulped and frowned.

"But it's OK, I fixed it," Darien hastened to add. "I made a deal with Matt Brookes so he would keep quiet and still show me the file."

"You made a deal with...," Eberts sat back down and began hyperventilating. "Oh," deep breath, "my," deep breath, "the," deep breath, "Official," deep breath, "is going ...."

While the 'Fish's assistant was gasping for air, Monroe walked over to her juice bar and pulled a bunch of carrots from a paper bag that had been sitting there. She returned to the couch and handed the bag to Eberts, who took it gratefully and began to breathe into it slowly and methodically. Then she turned to Darien, "Alright, just exactly how big of a mess have you made?"

"S'not a mess," he groused as he dropped his spartan frame into her lounge chair. "I told you, I fixed it. Brookes wanted me to renegotiate my deal with the FBI, so I said I would...."

"Eep." Eberts, who had begun breathing normally, returned the paper bag to his face.

Darien reached over and put a hand on his friend's forearm. "It's OK, Ebes, really. It's not like I'm gonna have to go through with it." He turned to Monroe, "see, I told Brookes I wanted a package deal, me and Bobby." Eberts began breathing even harder into the bag. "He said Bobby was all washed up, but I made him agree to let me see Bobby's file for myself."

"And what did the file say?" Alex asked, brows knit together and seating herself in the chair opposite Darien.

"It said a whole bunch of crazy stuff. I'm serious, man, Bobby went through a ton of crap there, most of it really top-secret and really confusing. There were case reports, performance evaluations, citations for bravery, reprimands for not following procedures, psychological evaluations ...."

"Cut to the chase, Fawkes, what did the file say about his leaving?"

Darien swallowed and considered his words. He had to phrase this just right or he would lose the other two before he even began. The accusations against Hobbes were inflammatory, to say the least, and he just prayed that his co-workers knew enough about Hobbes from personal experience to see just how bogus those charges  _had_  to be. "He was, ah, basically forced to resign, but it was a kangaroo court. There's absolutely no possible way that Hobbes was guilty."

"Guilty. Of. What?" Alex's tone was as taut as a tightrope.

Darien frowned, rolled his head about his neck and shoulders, then closed his eyes and finally uttered the words so foreign to his conception of Hobbes: "Dereliction of duty due to mental incapacity. They say he failed to protect his partner, who as a result was severely beaten and left permanently catatonic. That instead of working the case, he was off taking care of personal business." He saw the hard look in Alex's eyes and heard the soft gasp come from Eberts. "It's not true."

"Fawkes," Alex began surprisingly gently, "it's in the FBI's  _master_  personnel file ...."

"It's not  _true_!" Darien stated, this time louder and more forcefully.

"Files don't lie," Eberts asserted.

Darien turned a withering look on his friend. "Please, you of all people should know better than that."

"Not masters," the king of the Agency's file room amended.

"Look, I don't care what kind of file it was or what the supposed facts are. I know my partner, and so do you two. Do you think he's the kind of agent who would abandon his partner when she was in mortal danger?" His coffee-colored eyes locked on two sets of blue ones, willing them to see the truth beyond the facts.

Alex grimaced, shook her head. "I  _so_  know I am going to regret this, but where do we begin?"

"Alright, that's my girl," Darien smiled at her and rubbed his hands together. "First we need to talk one Special Agent Michael Zembach -- he was the lead investigator on the Campus Killer case. Bobby and his partner, Nell Murdy, were giving him an assist."

"Wait, the Campus Killer ... I seem to recall reading something about some maniac who made headlines with that tag a few years back," Alex said, " but that was before I moved out West."

"The Campus Killer, a.k.a one Richard Sayles," Eberts began automatically, "was a serial killer who terrorized college campuses in and around the San Diego area back in the summer of '98. His attacks were infamous for their brutality. His unique signature was that after sexually abusing his victims, he bludgeoned them to death with a series of increasingly weighty textbooks."

"Thanks for the round-up, Eberts," Darien looked askance at the seemingly mild-mannered accountant. "I didn't know you were a fan."

"I followed the story in the papers," Eberts said by way of explanation.

"I'll take Zembach," Alex stated. "I somehow think I'll have a better rapport with a top FBI profiler than you," she smirked.

"Ah, yah, you might be right about that," Darien conceded. "Hey, you wanna take Jonesy too? I mean, he was Bobby's partner right before Nell, so somebody needs to talk to him, but I'm warning you, if you make me do it, I'm just gonna wind up punching his lights out."

Alex snorted. "Now it sounds like you need to take yoga."

"Jonesy has that effect on people," Darien grumbled.

"Alright, so I've got Zembach and Jones; what are you gonna be doing?"

"I'm gonna talk to Nell's husband, Greg. Apparently he was one of the major witnesses against Hobbes. I'm also going to talk to Viv, Hobbes' ex-wife," Darien explained to Alex. "It was near the end of their marriage, but she may still be able to shed some light on what was going on in Hobbes' head at the time."

"If Hobbes' mental state was such an issue, shouldn't one of us talk to his therapist?"

Darien nodded. "Well, I'd agree if I knew who that was."

"I thought you said you saw his psych evals," Alex queried.

"Yeah, but I couldn't read the signature. You know doctors' handwriting and all," Darien played with an errant chestnut-hued curl near his ear. "But I, ah, did get this," he pulled a crumpled Kleenex covered in a series of numbers written in blue ink from his jacket pocket. "I wrote his insurance ID number down. I thought maybe we could do a search for his name." He pushed the tissue at Eberts, who gingerly grabbed the corners between thumb and forefinger and reviewed the writing at arm's length.

"I knew at some point it was going to come down to this," Eberts affirmed, dropping the tissue to the table, well away from his sandwich, "to you requesting my assistance in surreptitiously obtaining confidential information. I never should have agreed that first time you asked me to let Adam Reese 'chill' at my house," he had the good sense to look embarrassed when Alex shot him a hurt look, "oh what a tangled web we weave ...."

"Yeah, yeah," Darien rose, stretching his rangy frame out like a cat who'd been napping, oblivious to the fact that Alex was staring at the patch of flesh revealed on his lean corded abdomen as his shirt rode up with his shoulders, or that Eberts, in turn, was staring at Alex. He cracked his neck and turned to the file clerk. "I ah, also need you to play keep away with Hobbes during this whole thing. Can you bury him in the file room so he doesn't have time to worry about what we're doing?"

"I believe I can provide Robert with an adequate amount of administrative assignments to keep him occupied, yes," Eberts confirmed, then quickly added, "but you know Robert. If he decides to come looking for you, I am not sure I am willing to risk bodily harm by physically restraining him."

"Not a problem, my friend." Darien grinned evilly, "We can always get Claire to patch you up."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Greg Murdy was a man in pain. That much was obvious to Darien as he listened to Nell's husband launch into yet another diatribe on Hobbes' failure to protect the woman they had both cared for, the red of the man's rage apparent in the flush undertones of his dark skin.

"Why can't you all just leave Nell alone? Hasn't she given enough for you people? My wife paid her dues, you can be damn sure of that. She was a woman of color intent on doing what most folks at the time thought of as white man's work. She had to be smarter and stronger than any of the other agents just to get to the playing field. And let me tell you something, Agent Fawkes, she was just that: smarter, stronger and then some. Did you know she had a degree in forensic psychology? Now how many African-American women back in the '70s do you think had achieved that?" Greg barely noticed Darien shaking his head before running on in his conversation. "She  _made_  her superiors sit up and take notice. She worked hard and built a promising future on a solid foundation of impeccable casework. And what did she do? She threw it away on a bastard who wasn't even man enough to watch her back. She threw her life away on Robert Hobbes, and she tossed mine in along with it."

"Look, ah, Mr. Murdy, I know you blame Hobbes for your wife's, ah, condition...," Darien tried to get a word in edgewise.

"Damn straight I blame him. It may have been Richard Sayles' hands that beat my wife, but it was Hobbes' responsibility to make sure she had reliable back-up. And if he was too busy having a breakdown to provide it, then he damn sure should have excused himself from the case and let someone competent step up to the plate."

Darien rubbed his forehead with thumb and forefinger. "See now that's where I'm having a problem. The Hobbes I know is not the kind of man who would ever knowingly put his partner in danger."

"Let me tell you something, son, Robert Hobbes was a stark raving lunatic. Period. End of discussion," Greg squared his broad shoulders and crossed his arms firmly over a powerful chest that spoke volumes about the self-discipline of the older man. "Did you know that before Nell volunteered to be his partner, nobody else in the Bureau would agree to work with him? Even his partner before Nell said the man was a psycho, saw all kinds of bogeymen behind every stray bush."

"Ah, yeah, I had heard something to that effect ...," Darien nodded his head.

"His own wife left him because he couldn't keep his head on straight. And while he was busy stalking his wife, he let mine get beaten to a bloody pulp. All her beauty, her intelligence, her vitality ripped away and nothing left but a  _husk_ ," the gray-haired man's voice caught in his throat. "Do you know what it's like to have to see her that way, always the same, no emotion, no reaction, for the past four years? And to know that that is  _never_  going to change?" The man closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the bottle-green wing chair in which he sat. "I  _begged_  her to give it up, to tell her boss to find him another partner. She refused, said there was more to Hobbes than met the eye, just like there was with her. I remember her saying just like it was yesterday: 'Greg, how can you expect  _me_  of all people to be swayed by hearsay and prejudice?'"

"Nell Murdy didn't bail on her partner," Darien murmured, deeply grateful to the woman he'd never met for having faith in his troubled partner. However much they had fought when they first met, Hobbes had been fiercely loyal to Darien throughout the ups and downs of their own partnership. Now, hearing how Nell had been just as protective of Hobbes during Bobby's own personal ordeal both comforted Darien and made him ashamed that he had once betrayed their partnership by joining the FBI on his own.

"Damn straight she didn't bail. Loyal to the bitter end, that was my Nell. She even called his psychologist because she was worried about all the medication Hobbes was taking. She knew how bad his mental condition was and still she wouldn't ask for another partner. I don't think I'll forgive her for that and I  _know_  I'll never forgive him."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Alex sat on an ocean-front terrace, sipping black coffee from a blue spatterware mug as the sea breeze whipped her auburn hair about her shoulders. She could lose herself in a place like this, she mused, imagining a life here where there was nothing to see but sea meeting sky on the horizon. Nothing to listen for but the hypnotic sound of the waves crashing over the bluffs below and the rich baritone of the man before her. She could feel safe in a place like this, protected by a man like Agent Michael Zembach.

"I pulled lead on the Richard Sayles case by default," he explained, absently scratching beneath the front of his denim shirt as he talked. His fingernails were neatly trimmed, Alex noted, not manicured, but scrubbed, like he worked with his hands but took care to clean them well. The glimpse of chest she caught was sprinkled lightly with salt and pepper hair that echoed the color of the mane adorning his head. Certainly not the prissy styled coif of Fawkes, but again, clean and neatly trimmed. He looked for all the world like George Clooney no doubt would when he reached the big five-oh. "By rights, Nell Murdy should have headed up the investigation -- hell of a profiler that gal was -- but her ... association with Agent Hobbes meant she took second string."

"And why was that, Agent Zembach?" Alex asked politely, trying not to wonder whether the salty tang in the air was the scent of the sea or of the man himself.

"Please, call me Mike." He smiled and once again the blazing whiteness of his teeth against the deep bronze of his skin mesmerized her like a teenager mooning over a matinee idol's poster.

"Mike," she repeated, a little too breathlessly for her own liking. She needed to get control of herself and focus on the task at hand. She was a trained agent hunting for the truth about Hobbes' involvement in a vicious attack by a serial killer, not a contestant on  _The Bachelor_.

"I like the way you say that, Alex." If anything his smile got broader and more distracting.

Alex dropped her eyes and focused on the dwindling coffee in her cup. "Please, ah, Mike, you were going to tell me why Agent Murdy's partnership with Agent Hobbes prevented her from being lead investigator."

"Well, it's like this," he said, shifting against the yellow and blue cabana-striped cushions of his seat. "Hobbes was a real up and comer when he joined the Bureau. Real tough, tenacious little mutt and a hell of a lot smarter than he let on. He'd already done a fair amount of intel work in the military and the CIA, and he had great instincts. He wasn't afraid to work hard, and while he could be a little prickly at times, he earned the respect of his fellow agents. I mean, sure, he had his demons, but let's be honest," he tilted his head in Alex's direction, "who hasn't in our line of work, eh?"

Alex put down her empty mug and forced herself to look into eyes as clear and green as sea glass. "That may be true," she conceded, "but somehow I think Hobbes' demons are a little more ... virulent than most."

Zembach nodded sagely. "So we found out. He's still having troubles, I see."

"Oh, he has his moments," Alex quirked a lopsided smile, "but he seems to have a handle on things most of the time."

"Huh. At one time I considered him a damn fine agent, you know. He went above and beyond on numerous occasions. But he let his personal problems get in the way of the job," Mike's square jaw tightened and the corners of his lush mouth turned down to Alex's disappointment, "and in my book that's just unacceptable. His old partner, Jones, complained that Hobbes was getting sloppy. I didn't want to believe it, but who knows better than a guy's partner, right? It got so bad that Jones finally ditched him. After that, Hobbes was basically an outcast. Nell was the only one who was willing to partner with him, and she got splattered with his mud. I mean by that point, it was pretty obvious that the guy was in total self-destruct mode, coming up with all kinds of ridiculous conspiracy theories and the like. But Nell, she took it all in stride. She really believed she could help him. And what did she get for her trouble? Relegated to the minors. All she had to do was step away from Hobbes, and she could have been playing in the big leagues again." He stopped to take a swig from his own coffee, then raised his mug at her, "More?"

Alex shook her head and prodded, "But she refused?"

Zembach sighed and squinted up at the gulls wheeling against the haze of the sky. "Yeah, she refused -- and paid the ultimate price for it. And I have to tell you, it still sticks in my craw. I mean, Sayles is in San Quentin, and he's not ever going to get out. Nell, well, she's in her own sort of prison -- what kind of a life can you call it when the woman doesn't have the awareness God gave an infant? But Hobbes, he's out living his life, working the job. And he's the one really responsible for what happened to Nell. There's no question he failed in his duty to protect his partner -- hell, the man even admitted it! He testified at his hearing that he left Nell alone so he could go talk to his wife. And all he got was a slap on the wrist."

Mike's denouncement of Hobbes' actions set off a surprisingly unsettled feeling in the pit of Alex's stomach. The man was clearly a veteran agent with an intelligence and charm not unlike her father's. Her head told her that she should believe his assessment of Hobbes' actions -- after all, he'd been a first-hand witness to the events as they'd unfolded. But her gut told her that there was something wrong with the scenario he'd described. Once, when she and Hobbes had been searching yet again for the ever errant Darien, she'd told him that she trusted him, that she'd trust anyone who had as much faith in his partner as Hobbes had. That was something her father had taught her, and she thought now about the real meaning behind those words. It was impossible for her to reconcile those two notions of Hobbes. No one who had ever failed their partner as severely as Bobby was accused of doing could have that much faith in their own partner now. Her gut told her it simply wasn't possible. And that was something her father had taught her too, to listen to her gut.

"I'd hardly call being placed on psychological leave and then forced to resign a slap on the wrist," she pointed out finally.

"No, but he never had any formal charges filed against him, either. That's a hell of a lot better than he deserved for negligence on such a grand scale, if you ask me," Mike shot back.

"Well, thank you for your time and your opinion." Alex rose to leave, taking a moment to peer over the railing's edge before she departed. For the first time she got a good look at the sharp teeth of the cliffs looming such a short drop away. Perhaps on closer inspection this place wasn't as peaceful as it looked.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The tortoiseshell cat weaved through Darien's legs, triggering a strong sense of déjà vu as he rang the bell at the front door of the cozy white house. Until this morning, he hadn't seen the cat since it had greeted him in similar fashion a little over two years ago when he had visited the home at Hobbes' request. In fact, Bobby had been waiting nervously, parked by the curb in the van, for Darien to smooth the way. And while Darien was still here in Bobby's best interest, he shuddered to think what might happen if the little tiger ever found out just how far he'd trespassed into Hobbes' inner sanctum.

An attractive blonde came to the door, her lithe grace belying her 30-odd years. "Darien? What are you doing here?" She poked her head out the door and looked up the street and down again. "Where's Bobby?"

"Ah, hi, Viv," Darien hemmed and hawed, suddenly embarrassed at his coming intrusion into her personal life, "I, ah, need to talk to you about Hobbes ...."

"Oh my God," Viv came fully through the door, both hands clutching her protruding belly. "He's not hurt, is he? Oh, God -- he's not ...."

Darien put a hand up to her elbow to steady her. "No, no," he shook his head. "Nothing like that. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

"Oh, thank God," she wiped her brow with the back of one hand, brushing the short, silky strands of hair from her forehead. "Don't ever do that to a pregnant lady. Come in." She put a hand to her spine and gestured him inside.

"Well, I'd say you haven't changed, but ah," Darien stepped through the door at her invitation, "it's fairly obvious you have. You look great." He gave her a smile wide enough to crinkle the edges of his eyes.

"Thanks for the lie," she patted her belly and beamed. "Eight months, and I feel about as big as a battleship. Can I get you something to drink? Iced tea, lemonade?"

Darien followed her into the kitchen. "Tea, thanks. And you do look great. Brock's a lucky guy." He settled onto a counter stool, comfortably twining his long legs in its spokes.

She set a tall glass of ice-enhanced tea in front of him, the lemon wedge bobbing up and down like an apple in a tub. "So what's up with Bobby that you have to come out here?" She leaned one gingham smock covered hip against the counter opposite him.

Darien focused on fishing the lemon out of his tea with his long fingers. "I, uhm, recently spoke with Greg Murdy ...."

"Greg Murdy!" Viv was clearly taken aback. "I can't imagine why Bobby would want to go poking around in that old can of worms with you."

Darien pulled his prize from the tea, stuck the citrus wedge into his mouth and sucked on it, nose wrinkling at the bracing sourness. He just looked at Viv with innocent eyes.

"Don't tell me you're doing this  _without_  him! Are you crazy? He will seriously  _kill_  you if he finds out." She put both palms to her temples and twined her fingers in her hair.

He removed the spent wedge from his mouth and placed it on top of the cheerfully geese-patterned napkin next to his glass. "Yeah, well, he might, except that I'm gonna clear him."

"Clear him? You really are as crazy as he is. There's nothing to clear him of, Darien. As much as it pains me to say this, Bobby did exactly what he's accused of having done. He was in the middle of a mental meltdown, and he failed to protect Nell because he couldn't control his paranoid obsessive impulses regarding me. And the sooner you realize that that's Bobby Hobbes and that's what he's capable of, the safer you're going to be."

"Look, I know Bobby can get kinda paranoid ...," Darien stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned back on the stool, using his feet hooked in the rim to keep himself steady.

"Kinda paranoid, brother, you don't know the half of it," Viv muttered.

"No, no, I don't," Darien admitted. "But I do know Hobbes; I'm his partner. And the man I know wouldn't have done what they say."

Viv speared Darien with her eyes. "Don't you tell  _me_  about Bobby. You may be his partner, but I was his  _wife_ ," she said low and sharp. "It broke my heart to leave him, but I didn't have a choice." She wrapped both arms around her belly and hugged herself. "There was a time when I wanted this with him, you know -- a home, a family. But back then, Bobby was all about the job, about protecting the public, backing up his partner. After Jack Carelli died, Bobby spent even more time at work, double checking everything, following up every lead until all hours of the night. I remember in particular the last case he worked on with Jones; he was like a man possessed. I even worried that he would never be able to devote enough of his time or attention to me and a baby. I mean, don't get me wrong, he was always concerned about my safety, but it was him checking in on me by phone at regular intervals. That stuff I could handle, and he was getting regular counseling so I thought over time it would ease up.

"Then, about seven months before the end, he got really nuts. He kept insisting we were being followed, that our phones were tapped. Bobby actually attacked the grocery boy for helping to put my bags in my car; he kept insisting the kid was planting a bomb. That's when I asked him to leave the house," she shook her head slowly, sadly. "We tried seeing a marriage counselor but he began ranting that our mediator was a mole trying to pry government secrets out of him. Once the Campus Killer struck, he was completely unreasonable, absolutely convinced the murderer was after me specifically. He gave me a stun gun. He didn't want me going anywhere without him. He even snuck in here one night and stole my car keys so I couldn't go to my job because it was on the UCSD campus. I had to call the dealership and buy a replacement set so I could go to work. I filed for divorce the next day. Bobby tried to call me, but I refused to get on the phone. He tried to come to the house and talk to me; I had the locks changed. About a week later, he finally caught me after work on campus. I swear to God, he was absolutely raving, and I was just so  _exasperated_ ," Viv turned away from Darien and leaned her head against a cabinet door. "I had him detained by the campus police, told them he was stalking me. I wanted them to hold him for a few hours to get my message across. How was I supposed to know?" It was more of a sob than a question.

Darien reached over the counter, took her elbow and turned her to face him. Stray tears threatened the corners of her eyes, and he was loath to cause her any more pain, but he had to ask the question. "Know what, Viv?"

"That he had left Nell to investigate alone so he could come and see me. That the whole time he was being detained by the campus police, she was being attacked. That she would wind up spending the rest of her life as a vegetable just because I wanted to teach Bobby a lesson."

The tears spilled over, silencing her narrative. Darien was tempted to go to her, wrap his long arms around her, soothe her, but the comfort wasn't his to give. Instead, he contented himself with handing her a wad of puffy pink tissues from the Kleenex box on the counter. When she had finished, he told her solemnly, "It's not your fault, you know."

"You don't think?" she asked in a watery voice.

Darien pursed his lips, shook his head. "No, no, I don't. I don't believe it's any more your fault than I believe it's Bobby's. You two just got caught in the middle of something. I don't know what it is yet, but I promise you I'm gonna find out." He rose from the stool. "Listen, I'm, ah, gonna go. You probably want to rest or something ...."

"Yeah, yeah," she nodded and led him back to the foyer. "I think I would like to lie down for a bit." She opened the door. As he went to exit, she put a hand on his arm. "I want," her face twisted as she fought back more tears, "I want to believe what you said -- about me, about Bobby. For what it's worth, I hope somehow you can find a way to make Nell's condition not his fault."

Darien stepped through to the front path, the morning sun streaming behind him, leaving him in silhouette save for the shine of his dark curls. "You can bank on it, Viv." He dropped an impulsive peck on her cheek and left.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Alex Monroe, huh? So, what's a nice girl like you doing at The Agency?"

Alex snorted. Agent Jones certainly did not impress on first acquaintance. She tapped her toe as he overtly gave her the once over, starting at the tips of her glossy caramel kidskin boots, wandering over her suede draped hips and lingering just a touch too long on the swell of her bust. When his eyes finally came to rest on her face, she'd finished her appraisal as surely as he'd finished his, and most definitely less favorably. She felt the acid rise to her tongue automatically, but she held her temper. After all, she'd clawed her way up the professional ladder by building relationships for the sole purpose of exploiting the information they might provide. So she reminded herself that Jones' first-hand account of his partnership with Hobbes might provide vital insights into the troubled agent's mental history.

"At the moment, I'm on a fact-finding mission regarding the Richard Sayles' case -- or more specifically Bobby Hobbes' involvement in it."

Jones automatically checked the vicinity, looking both right and left as if he were about to jaywalk. He took Alex by the elbow and steered her through the bustling Bureau hallways into an empty conference room. "Listen, honey, you do not want to get mixed up in ole Lithium Bob's past. If you're smart, you'll go straight back to that Official of yours and ask him to scare up some non-existent bioterrorists for you to chase -- or maybe a werewolf or two for Halloween."

And then again, some people just asked for an ass kicking. "Oh, I don't  _think_  so, Agent Jones." Jerking her elbow from his grasp, Alex picked up a gold fountain pen that was lying on the table and poked it in Jones' chest. "I think I'm going to ask you some questions, which you're going to answer to my satisfaction. Otherwise, I'm going to have to take this pen and insert it in orifices that weren't designed for it."

Jones straightened up in an attempt to capitalize on his height advantage. "You wouldn't dare."

Alex stepped up toe to toe with him and looked him straight in the eye. "Just try me."

Jones hovered a beat, but when Alex didn't back down, he flopped into a conference chair. "Alright, Miss Monroe, ask away. I'm always pleased to do anything I can to satisfy a lady," he said, flicking his tongue around his lips.

"Good." Alex tossed the pen back to the table but remained standing. "So why don't we start at the beginning -- you were Hobbes' partner before Nell Murdy, right?"

"Yeah, he was my 'partner,' if you can call it that. Frankly, he was never anything more than an albatross around my neck from the beginning. I mean, I had high hopes when we first teamed up. The man had a solid gold professional reputation -- medals up the whazoo from his time in the Marines, citations for bravery, top of his training class. But his personal rep? He was a royal pain-in-the-ass, never willing to let anything slide. Believe me, he'd already had more than his fair share of personality clashes when he landed in my lap. I was on the fast track," he picked up the gold pen and starting playing it, "like cream I was just rising to the top ...,"

Alex grimaced. Darien had been right; this guy was a jerk.

"... and then the brass came to me and requested --  _asked_  me, mind you -- if I would mind working with Hobbes. Now I'm a stand-up kinda guy, never one to judge someone on the basis of rumor or innuendo. I make up my own mind based on personal experience and results, right? I get along with everyone. So I say sure, I'll ride shotgun with this guy if no one else will. Worst decision I ever made."

"Oh yeah, you're a real prize, I can tell," Alex deadpanned. "I take it it wasn't a match made in heaven then."

"More like the seventh circle of hell," Jones retorted. "I mean from Day One, Hobbes was a psycho. Always wanting to call his wife and check in on her. At first I thought he was just worrying about her cheating -- she was a pretty young thing," Jones licked his lips again, "but then he started pulling that crap on me. Always wanting to know where I was, where I was going. I don't take that from my women, why would I take it from him? And as an investigator? The guy was a walking disaster ...."

The scales in Alex's head clanged down loudly against Jones' veracity with that statement. Of all the things she'd call Hobbes -- irreverent, eccentric, unorthodox -- he was clearly a top-notch investigator. He had finely honed instincts that allowed him to take mental leaps that defied logic, but invariably proved sound. He'd done so on the very first case they'd worked together, when she'd foisted herself upon the Agency in a desperate attempt to find her son. She'd been working for weeks to make sense of a pattern of seemingly random baby snatchings across the country, to find the one critical commonality that would lead her to the perpetrators who had broken not just her own family, but thousands of others as well. Within the first five minutes of being introduced to the investigation, Hobbes had asked the one simple question that Alex had never thought to ask herself: "What do all the babies' fathers have in common?" The resulting answer had led them all down an investigative path to discover not just to the location of the missing babies, but also a barbaric plot by Chrysalis to use unsuspecting women as incubators for their genetically enhanced offspring.

She crossed her arms and fixed Jones with an icy stare. "You don't say."

"... and he could never learn to just leave well enough alone. I'm all for doing the job, don't get me wrong, but there are some times when you just have to let it go. You're an agent; you know the score. The boss man says lay off, you lay off. But not Bobby. The last straw was that damn McEvy case. I mean, sure, I thought it was a shame -- young boy like that, bright political future, senator's aide and all, just winds up dead. And I wanted to work the case, just like he did, but I know how to take an order. The brass said drop it, so I dropped it. But not ole Lithium Bob. No, he's too good for that, absolutely convinced he's some sort of avenging angel for the kid and his mother. So rather than listen to reason, he starts rooting around on his own, sticking his nose where it don't belong. Goes off half-cocked and starts spouting this whole conspiracy theory -- it was  _classic_ , really. He even went to our chief and accused  _me_  of trying to screw the pooch. And who winds up with his ass in a sling over the whole fiasco? Me, that's who. Is it any wonder I refused to work with him anymore?"

"Poor Jonesy," Alex cooed in mock sympathy. "I'm sure it was just a terrible trial for you."

"Go ahead, make wisecracks, don't believe me. Nell Murdy didn't believe me either and look where it got her. Beaten and left a permanent vegetable. And don't think the same thing isn't going to happen to you the next time Hobbes decides to take a vacation from reality, you and that tall kid...the one with the hair... what's his name?" Jones stopped for a moment as if to try and remember the name.

"Fawkes," Alex ground out, fully aware that Jones knew exactly what Darien's name was.

"Oh yeah, Fawkes -- the invisible guy. Take it from me, Bobby Hobbes is nothing but a short, bald, annoying, paranoid nutcase who is just gonna get the people around him killed. Just like I had the pleasure of telling the disciplinary review board back in D.C. right before they drummed him out of the Bureau." Jones sat back with a satisfied sneer.

Alex had heard enough. Like the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back, his last harangue broke any modicum of restraint she had been pained to show throughout her interview with the self-serving hypocrite. "Let me tell you something, Agent Jones. Bobby Hobbes may be a short, bald, annoying, paranoid nutcase, but he's twice the agent and 100 times the man a prick like you will ever be."

Alex stormed out of the conference room, slamming the door behind her. Hustling through the Bureau's halls, she kept her head down to hide her scarlet cheeks. Truth be told, she had thought it was impossible for anything to make her blush any more, but she was just as shocked by her sudden outburst in defense of Hobbes as Jones had been. She knew she'd formed a grudging respect for the outcast agent, but she hadn't suspected he'd gotten far enough under her skin to trigger her defensive, maternal instincts. She'd tried so long and so hard to hold herself aloof from the people around her, knowing that in her line of business friends were a luxury she couldn't afford. And now she suddenly found herself in possession of not one, but four friends. People she could talk to, workout with, share lunch with,  _count on_. She hadn't asked for their friendship, hell, she'd done everything she could think of to prevent it. But now that she had it, she was determined to hold up her end of the bargain starting with one bi-polar James Bond of whom she'd grown entirely too fond.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"I can't believe you don't take notes, Fawkes. How the hell do you expect to remember case details if you don't take notes?"

"I remember details just fine. Don't need to take no notes. I used to be a cat burglar, remember? Notes ain't much good when you're hanging from the side of a building," Darien held out his arms mimicking his climbing stance, "you need both hands for suction climbers, see?"

Alex and Darien were sitting side by side on the couch in her office, her interview notes spread out before them on the coffee table. "Great, just brilliant really," Alex sighed and picked up a piece of paper. "Now look, this is the timeline I've reconstructed based on a cross-reference of all the interviews we've done so far ...."

Darien leaned over so he could view the same sheet as Alex, their heads practically touching as they both studied the paper before them. "The weird thing is that they had all this intel and more," he reflected, "so why didn't the Bureau ever file formal charges? Why take the time to go through the whole mental leave thing if they could have just proven him guilty and been done with it? What did it buy them?"

"Well, well, well, don't you two look cozy," Hobbes stood smirking before them. "Whatcha workin' on?" He reached to pick up a paper from the coffee table, but Darien and Alex quickly piled them all up and covered them with a manila file.

"It's, ah, nothing, Hobbes," Alex blurted out. "I just ah, asked Darien to take a look at some details of an old case of mine that I thought he could offer some insight on."

"Really, setting up shop in the spook consulting biz already, huh?" Bobby turned to his partner. "Don't you think that's a little premature? Maybe you ought to spend a little more time studying for the agent practical exam first. Or at least return your teacher's phone calls."

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that buddy," Darien came around quickly to Bobby's side, hoping to distract him with a mock punch in the shoulder. "Hey, how goes life in the file room? Eberts driving you crazy yet?"

"Me, crazy? Noooo," Hobbes' tone was suddenly suspicious, and he darted a hand towards the pile of paper, "in fact, I gotta few spare minutes to lend a hand with your investigation...."

"No!" Darien and Alex exclaimed, both lunging to intercept the pile before Hobbes could reach it. They wound up on either side of the couch with the papers spilled to the floor beneath them. With a relieved sigh, Alex began gathering them up again.

Darien returned to Hobbes' side and threw his arm around the smaller man's shoulders. "Listen, Hobbes, it's not that we wouldn't love your help, but really, it's nothing you need to concern yourself with. Just enjoy your downtime filing and don't even worry about this stuff."

Hobbes' head started nodding as he rocked back and forth from heel to toe. "Oh, I see this is the way it's gonna be once you pass the agent exam, huh, Golden Boy? You and Monroe get the glory, while I do the dirty work? Well let me tell you something my friend, Bobby Hobbes takes a back seat to no one, especially not a snot-nosed punk who suddenly thinks he's God's gift to spook-dom. I was paying my dues protecting this country while your skinny juvenile delinquent ass was rotting in prison." Bobby punctuated each word of his description with a poke to Darien's chest.

Alex moved to get in between the two men and calm Bobby down. "Hobbes, it's alright, I asked the Official to loan me Darien for a little extra curricular work ..."

"And as for  _you_ ," Hobbes rounded on Monroe, refusing to listen to her explanation, "I expected better from you. Fawkes is still learning the ropes; he ain't never worked with a real partner 'sides me. But you're a trained agent. I can't say I was thrilled when you came barging into this agency waving your five-star rating around like it was a diamond from Tiffany's, but I  _thought_  we'd managed to work out a least an understanding, if not some sort of respect. Now I find out the whole time you been trying to steal my partner behind my back?"

"Hobbes, it's not what you think," Alex assured him.

"Oh yeah, well then why don't one of you tell me what it is?" Hobbes' piercing gaze swung from one supposed friend to the other. When neither answered his question, he clenched his fists and turned towards the door. "That's what I thought. Alright, Bobby Hobbes ain't no schmoe. I know when I'm not wanted. This the way you two want it? Fine by me. I've worked alone before, I can do it again  _easy_." He stopped in the doorway and turned to them with one last parting shot, "and I will be  _way_  better off without having to be tied to the hip with gland boy all the time. Good luck with him, Monroe. You're gonna need it."

The door slammed and Darien turned to Alex, running his hands through his hair. "Wow, that went well ...."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Three

 

_Bobby Hobbes has guts. The more I find out about him, the more respect I have for the guy. I don't know how many decks he's had stacked against him, but he keeps on going. He doesn't spend energy on feeling sorry for himself, or wasting time on the might- have-beens. It's not that he doesn't wish things were different; it's that most of the time he doesn't get stuck there. He soldiers on. I wish… I wish_ I _had his guts. But sometimes, even guts aren't enough to get you where you want to go._

_There's an old axiom: "friends in need are friends indeed." The problem is, I think it's been such a long time since Hobbes really felt like he had friends that he'd kind of forgotten that it's OK to need them. I knew when he found out what we were doing, he was gonna go off like a bomb. But it was time for him to finally figure out that all the concern and the loyalty he puts out there is gonna come back at him. We were just giving him back something I wonder if he's ever really known: friendship._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Alex checked her Palm Pilot for the number she wanted. She was calling in some heavy-duty favors on this wild goose chase, but if nothing else, the interviews she'd done had convinced her that something downright Machiavellian had wrapped itself through the career of Robert Hobbes. That he maintained as much professionalism as he did given the unsteady seesawing of his career was pretty solid evidence to her of his basic character. He was always willing to step in and do what it took, and recently, he had even been willing to help her out with a mission that by rights, she shouldn't have involved him or Fawkes in. None of the stresses she'd been under at the time should have triggered the anxiety reaction that had plagued her for almost two years now, since James' abduction. But the news that Stark had been in contact with the Cuban embassy had sent her off the deep end, and she had known she needed help, help she could trust, and that wouldn't use her need for assistance against her now or in the future. Hobbes and Fawkes had come through like champs, and while the case hadn't turned out to be what she had feared, it had driven home to her that she found herself oddly comfortable in this mismatched collection of lunatics that made up the government's most backwater intelligence agency. It was that unaccustomed feeling that told her she had found a place where her skills were more than just an asset. Where she as an individual mattered to those she worked with.

She had to laugh at herself, since it was certainly not by any virtue of her own that she had come to inspire friendship in her co-workers. She had been on her own too long in the endless quest for information that would lead her to her son to recognize it when she saw it, until she had been hit over the head with it enough times for it to sink in. It was that that had ultimately convinced her to assist Fawkes before he got himself into some mess he wouldn't have an easy time getting back out of. And basically, she liked them, the Laurel and Hardy of the spy world.

However reluctantly, she had come to respect Hobbes' training, skills and professionalism. She'd even come to respect his working class version of her Rolodex, what he called Hobbesnet. And even more than that, she had come to respect Hobbes' simple willingness to do whatever it took, no questions asked. However obsequious he might come across in Agency briefings when confronted with the Official's self-important autocracy, Bobby Hobbes knew his stuff. It had taken her a long time to start seeing it, and it bothered her that she had let herself jump to conclusions; she'd always thought she was beyond that.

She knew herself well enough to know that uncomfortable self-revelations were not her long suit. But here she was, about to call in a favor that had nearly cost her her life. All for the sake of a pint-sized super-agent. And abruptly, she couldn't think of a better reason. It had startled her to realize she actually liked Robert Hobbes. As much as she liked his lanky and whiny partner. Both of them were inherently generous in a business that rewarded only cut-throat survival of the fittest. They understood the nature of friendship without having advanced degrees in psychology. They had, if not welcomed her, then at least given her a chance. She had found a home of sorts, after a rootless life. She sat down slowly in the leather chair that centered her desk. She was at home here. It was an unusual feeling. A good one.

She smiled as she picked up her phone and dialed. "Hello, Senator Graham?" she spoke into the receiver. "Alexandra Monroe."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"I'll be there in the morning," Alex assured the warden and hung up. Now to convince Claire that her help was essential.

She swiped her keycard through the code box that allowed access to the Keep and walked into the main lab. Claire was intent on her computer as usual, and Alex considered that minimal expenditure of funds the best investment she'd made in her brief tenure at the Agency. Claire Keeply, pseudonym not withstanding, was one of the most brilliant people Alex had ever had the pleasure of knowing. Supplying her with the computing power to do what she did best was a no-lose situation. "Hey, Claire," she greeted her friend.

"Alex! What on earth are you doing here?" Claire inquired, surprised.

"I work here, remember?" Alex smiled. "At least once in a while."

Claire grinned back, laughing. "That's not what I meant. I thought you were tutoring Darien in CTS."

"Among other things. So, what's your day look like for tomorrow?" Alex asked casually.

Claire straightened, curiosity piqued. "That depends," she hesitated. "I suppose there's nothing urgent about any of the things on my list… Why?"

It was Alex's turn to hesitate as she worked out the best way to bring Claire in on the clandestine investigation Darien had initiated to find out what had happened to derail Hobbes' career. "You remember that little explosion Hobbes blew off in the hall the other day?" she began.

Claire nodded, reluctantly. "Yes, what about it?"

"Well, you know Fawkes got to wondering what the real story was. What Hobbes did that got him drummed out of the FBI five years ago."

Claire scowled. "Darien has no business snooping about in Bobby's past. If he'd wanted Darien to know, he'd have told him!" Claire protested.

Alex held up an appeasing hand. "That's what  _I_  told him, trust me." Alex made a face as she recalled Fawkes' hang-dog confession that he'd broken into the FBI looking for the records Alex had refused to acquire for him. "I said I'd help Fawkes after he broke into the FBI and went looking for Hobbes' employee records, just to keep him outta any more trouble-"

"He did  _what_?" Claire interrupted, appalled.

"I know. Not the smartest move he ever made. And neither was making a deal to go back to the FBI if Brookes would get him Hobbes' records."

Claire went pale. "You mean Darien's leaving the Agency?!" she asked, shocked.

"No, no, no. Long story short, he told me that he's just using that as a lure to get Brookes to help him find out what happened. Anyway, Brookes got hold of the files, and Fawkes read them. You've seen Bobby's mental health records, you know the disciplinary hearings basically made it seem like Hobbes was negligent in letting his partner go off to a meet alone while he was busy running after his wife," Alex explained.

"Yes, I'd seen that much," Claire muttered worriedly.

"Anyway, what struck both Fawkes and me was that the hearing ended without charges being filed. I've just spent the last hour on the phone trying to find out who pulled the plug on it, and why. Even my top level contacts can't find out," she told Claire.

The Doctor's instincts were clearly twitching at this news, Claire's eyes narrowing as she tapped a forefinger on her chin. Alex's instincts had twinged the same way when she'd hit that brick wall. "Kinda makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Monroe asked ironically.

"You know Bobby is going to have an absolute  _fit_  if he discovers you two have been poking around in his past," Claire protested worriedly. "Don't you realize what a private person he is? In the time I've worked here, the number of significant details I've learned about him can be counted on one hand!"

Alex couldn't help wondering if the pretty blonde Doctor was suffering from a slight case of 'afraid to know' where Hobbes was concerned. She was only too aware of Hobbes' feelings for Claire, and suddenly began to wonder if those sentiments weren't returned to some degree. She smiled speculatively. "So you're telling me you don't want to know what really happened?" she prodded with a certain amount of calculation.

"I didn't say that," Claire disagreed weakly and flushed slightly. "I'm just trying to point out that Bobby is…"

"What? Shy?" Alex scoffed. "I don't think so, Claire. What he  _is_ , is a team player. One with a lot of baggage that he's been carrying around for years. How many of the meds he's on are the result of what happened at the FBI?" She knew playing the guilt card was underhanded, but she was going to need Claire's help. "I've made arrangements to get a copy of the file on the case Hobbes and Murdy were working on. When it comes tomorrow, I want you to take a look at it and see if there's anything that seems… out of place."

Claire's expression was reluctance personified. "Where will you be?" she asked Monroe.

"San Quentin," Alex told her. "I'm going on a little field trip to talk to Richard Sayles -"

"And who is Richard Sayles?" Claire interrupted a little sarcastically.

"He's the murderer Hobbes and Nell Murdy were after when Nell was injured. Did you live in San Diego five years ago? Do you remember the Campus Killer case?" she laughed without humor. "Stupid question. According to Darien and Eberts, everyone in the  _country_  heard about the Campus Killer."

Claire's eyes widened. "I was in Virginia, working for the DOD at the time, but I certainly heard about it. That was Sayles? Oh, yes, of course. I remember the trial. You mean  _Bobby_  was involved in that investigation?" The quirked eyebrow Alex lifted at this brought the flush of embarrassment to Claire's cheeks again.

"Yeah, well, like you said, there's a lot more to Bobby Hobbes than the spy stuff, remember?" Alex pointed out with a trace of sarcasm. "Anyway, Sayles has always denied nearly beating Agent Murdy to death, but the evidence was pretty overwhelming, so he was convicted of that as well as the four murders he  _did_  confess to."

Claire frowned. "Why are you going to talk to him?" she asked, and something in her tone told Alex that the Keeper's impressive IQ was grinding into action.

"I want to hear it for myself. Fawkes has a theory that the guy didn't actually hurt Nell, that someone else did, and that Hobbes was basically blamed for negligence because no one looked deep enough into the case. He wants to hear it in person, see if Sayles can come up with any theories," Alex told her.

"But why would someone want to hurt Agent Murdy? I can understand why Sayles might, if Nell and Bobby were getting too close, but what would the motive be for someone else to?" Claire pondered, her scowl deepening

"That's the $64,000 question," Alex agreed. "But if Fawkes' hunch is right, then Hobbes was set up. Or at the very least, railroaded. That's why I have to talk to Sayles. And why  _you_  need to go over the evidence against him, particularly in the Murdy case, to see if the evidence supports the conviction, or if they took the easy way out and drew the obvious conclusions," she finished.

Claire leaned back in her desk chair, crossing her arms under her breasts as she mulled this over. "Do you know what they based the conviction on?" she asked sharply. "How strong was the forensic evidence?"

"My understanding is, it was pretty solid, but that's why I want you to take a look. From what I know, it  _looked_  like Sayles, so they never checked out any other suspects," Alex said.

Claire was silent for a long moment, eyes narrowed as she focused on some illusory middle distance. Alex waited, recognizing her in cogitation mode.

"So what you're telling me is that unless you can find a way to prove that Sayles had nothing to do with the attack on Nell, there's no way to clear Bobby of the stigma of negligence. And until that can be cleared up, he'll continue to feel he has no options," Claire said at last as she eyed Alex expectantly.

Monroe nodded. "That pretty much sums it up," she agreed, impressed that Claire had seen past the immediate issue to its long-term impact on Hobbes.

Claire continued to brood over this and Alex waited, fairly sure that patience now would be rewarded by some flash of scientific brilliance on Claire's part. She was not disappointed.

"Ever heard of brain fingerprinting?" Claire asked her.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

San Quentin was perhaps the strangest place Claire had ever visited. A prison built on the end of a spit of land on the northwest end of San Francisco bay, the place had a medieval somberness at odds with the spectacular view of the local landscape, including Mt. Tamalpias and the city of San Francisco itself. It was one of the few maximum security prisons in the state that was situated in the middle of a densely populated and obscenely wealthy community rather than out in the hinterlands, where its existence could be forgotten.

She stuck close as Monroe led the way past the checkpoints, through the gates and into the halls, following a guard to the warden's office.

"Warden Jacobsen?" Hand outstretched, Alex advanced on the careworn, heavyset man seated behind a massive desk who rose hastily. "Agent Alexandra Monroe and Dr. Claire Keeply." She shook the quickly offered hand and glanced around the room until her gaze alighted on the large-ish Federal Express box on the floor by the desk. "Good, I see it got here," she added, bending to pick up the box and putting it on the desk.

"Dr. Keeply?" the warden extended the hand to her, next, and Claire shook it.

"Call me Claire," she smiled nervously.

"Claire," the warden repeated obediently. "Forgive me if I'm just a little confused by all this sudden interest in the Richard Sayles case now, after five years," he went on, "but when Senator Graham called yesterday to warn me to expect you, he wasn't very specific on the details of what exactly your interest  _was_."

Alex nodded, business-like and settled into one of the chairs in front of the desk, waiting as Claire hurriedly seated herself in the second. "We're looking into the possibility that one of the victims Mr. Sayles was convicted of assaulting was in fact attacked by someone else," she informed the suddenly wary warden.

"You're not with that 'Innocence Project' are you?' he demanded suspiciously.

"No," Claire put in before Alex could speak up. "No, we're doing a parallel investigation for the Department of Fish and Game on another case of assault that has some unhappy similarities to the Campus Killer's MO. We're afraid we may have a copycat to deal with," she dissembled, hearing the nervousness in her voice as she spoke. She only hoped it wouldn't be as obvious to Warden Jacobsen as it was to her.

The suspicion faded from Jacobsen's face and he leaned back grimly, mouth a straight line. "Wonderful. Like the world needed another Richard Sayles," he observed flatly. "What can I do to help you?" he asked, looking from one to the other of them seriously. "I assume you want to talk to him?" he guessed.

"Yes," Alex confirmed. "And we'll need to run a few tests on him."

"Tests?" the warden inquired with a frown.

"Yes," Claire leaned forward earnestly, prepared to do her best to explain the process she intended to use. "That package," she pointed at the Fed Ex box, "-contains a new piece of equipment currently being developed by the FBI. It's an electroencephalographic variation on the standard polygraph, only much, much more accurate."

"Excuse me?" Jacobsen looked confused. "You want to give him a lie detector test?"

"After a fashion, yes," Claire agreed. "Only, in this case, the device measures brain impulses associated with the active accessing and storage of memories rather than simple physiological reactions. It is truly impossible to fake the results, since the apparatus detects the physical presence of memory as the subject responds to very specific types of questioning and visual data. If there is no memory, there will be no response. If there  _is_  a memory, the response cannot be hidden. It's quite elegant, actually," she enthused, letting her fondness for cutting edge research carry her away.

"I'll have to take your word for it," the warden said, bemused. "So what do you need from me?" he asked.

"A quiet room, and an audio-visual setup," Alex interjected firmly.

"And Richard Sayles," Claire added.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Claire flashed the still photo of an attractive middle-aged black woman onto the TV, glancing at the EEG display as she did. There was no change in brain pattern of any kind. "Do you recognize this person?" she asked, as she had asked four times previously and received unmistakable positives for.

"No," was the monosyllabic response from her subject.

"Do you recognize her now?" she asked, flashing on to the crime scene photo of Nell Murdy's bloody and beaten face.

"No," came the reply. "Look, I told you like I told everyone else. I only made it as far as four. Not that I wasn't planning on breakin' Bundy's record, but I got sloppy, and I got caught. You happy now?" Richard Sayles asked, surly, as he shifted in his restraints, glaring at Claire over his shoulder.

"Overjoyed," Claire snapped, suppressing a shudder at the cavalier admission of the man that he'd had every intention of becoming the next Ted Bundy and removed the electrode cap from Sayles' wispy blond-haired head. Unlike Bundy, this particular predator could make no claim to charm, good looks or any of the other attributes that Bundy had used to his advantage. Sayles was a small man, of small intellect, and smaller appeal. She supposed it was fortunate that that was the case, since it had resulted in his capture before his grandiose plans to equal Bundy's reputation could be realized. "We're done here," she said to the burly guard who stood like a fireplug with his back to the door. "Take him away."

The guard fastened a bar between Sayles' ankle cuffs and another between his wrist restraints, then proceeded to unlock the manacles that had held him to the examining chair.

The two women remained silent until the room had been cleared.

"So." Alex began to pace restlessly around the small interrogation room. "What did he really tell us?" she asked Claire.

"Quite a bit, actually," Claire replied as she finished packing up the equipment and returning it to its case. "The crime scene photos you gave me didn't trigger any memory reposes in his prefrontal cortex, and there was no indication of active memory involved according to his Beta wave readings. There didn't seem to be any excessive response from his limbic system, either. He truly has no memory of the crime, or the injuries Agent Murdy sustained in the attack. I'd say that effectively eliminates him as a suspect in that case. His response to the other four killings was unmistakably positive, so I had an excellent baseline to work from. All I can say is, it's a stroke of luck that the judge in the trial closed the courtroom and refused to release photos of the victims. It makes these results absolutely iron-clad."

"So you're telling me that he didn't attack Nell?"

"Yes, that's what the evidence suggests," Claire confirmed.

"So Fawkes was right. Something fishy  _did_  happen with that whole investigation," Alex said quietly, once again surprised at the accuracy of a neophyte's hunches. The guy had great instincts, she had to admit. It must have something to do with his life as a thief. He had a feel for deception that was as much a pro as it was a con. As long as it was directed at solving a crime or assessing a situation, it was an unbelievable asset. On the other hand, when it was turned on those he worked with in an effort to deceive, Darien Fawkes' skill as a consummate liar was a supreme liability. Fortunately those occasions happened less and less frequently.

"It appears so," Claire agreed as she folded the last of the electrode leads into a compact bundle and cinched them up to prevent the whole apparatus from resembling overcooked spaghetti when it was unpacked later. "I don't know why you're so surprised, Alex. Darien has exceptional instincts about things like this."

Monroe snorted in agreement. "I was just thinking the same thing," she confirmed.

"So where does this leave your investigation?" Claire inquired as she zipped the case shut and straightened.

"With a lot of unanswered questions," Alex said dryly. "I suggest we get back so you can start going through the evidence. We still need to put together enough of a case for Fawkes to convince the Feds to clear Hobbes' record."

"Alex…." Claire hesitated, then continued on. "Do you know why Darien is doing this  _now_? What triggered this sudden interest in Bobby's past?"

"I'm not sure, exactly. But Fawkes is enough of a buttinsky that he can't just leave it alone. No, he's got to get all of us involved in dissecting the life and times of Robert Hobbes."

Claire considered this as she tugged her sweater on over her blouse. "It seems to me that he believes in Bobby. That he believes Bobby is capable of far more than he's been given credit for by anyone else at the Agency…," she speculated quietly, a pensive look on her face.

Alex eyed the blonde, intrigued. It appeared her hunch about Claire's soft spot for Bobby wasn't so farfetched after all. She smiled, both amused and pleased, and hefted the carrying case that held the glorified EEG equipment the brain fingerprinting technique required. "Well, he's not the only one who believes in Hobbes, is he?" she asked, unable to help the trace of smugness in her voice. She turned and stepped out of the small interrogation room they'd used, feeling Claire's eyes on her back as she walked away down the hall, the guard assigned to them falling in alongside.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien hurriedly dropped the forceps he'd been playing with for half an hour as the door of the Keep swept open with a soft hiss of pneumatics. The clatter it made hitting the instrument tray startled him and he bumped into the cart holding the tray, upsetting it and knocking everything to the floor with an earsplitting crash as Alex and Claire entered.

Embarrassed to be caught playing with the Keeper's toys, he crouched, sweeping up all manner of arcane and sinister looking implements back onto the stainless steel tray and hastily returned the cart to an upright position so that he could unburden himself of the instrument tray.

"Darien!" Claire exclaimed, annoyed, hastening to take the tray away from him. "Why on earth did you open all the sterile packs? Now I'm going to have to re-autoclave all of these! How many times have I told you to leave my things alone?" she asked, resembling nothing so much as an angry school teacher as she stood facing Fawkes, putting her hands on her hips, glowering at him.

Darien managed his best hang-dog look and shuffled his feet a little. "Sorry, Keepy… I was waiting for you and Monroe to get back from San Quentin, and I was just checkin' out a few of your little torture instruments," he apologized, teasing her a little, hoping the shy smile would defuse her pique.

The Keeper sighed, shaking her head with a certain amount of fondness. "Darien, how would you like it if I came over to your apartment and went through your video tape collection?" she asked him.

Darien grinned, knowing he was off the hook. "You can come over and watch Mira Sorvino movies any time you want, Keepy," he laughed, moving aside to allow her past the demented dentist's chair. Alex lay the EEG kit she was carrying on the chair and Darien poked at it curiously, "What's that?" he asked, looking from one to the other of them.

" _That_  is proof," Monroe answered, moving to stand behind Claire, who had seated herself at her computer and was busy downloading her data onto her server.

"Proof of what?" Fawkes inquired, joining them.

"Proof that your partner is doing a halfway decent job training you," Alex said sarcastically, letting the smile reach her eyes to let him know she was teasing. "Your hunch is right, the case was mishandled," she added. "Sayles didn't attack Nell Murdy."

"Yeah? How do you know? I mean, how does that whatchmajigger over there tell you that?" Darien asked, interested but skeptical. "and how does that help us clear Hobbes of negligence?"

"This 'whatchamajigger', as you so eloquently described it, is capable of determining the presence of memory in a subject. Richard Sayles has no memory of the scene of the attack, the specific nature of the wounds, and most importantly, Nell herself," Claire informed him as she lifted the kit out of the chair and put it on the workbench against the wall. "Since she wasn't the lead psychologist involved, her name and photograph never appeared in any of the media at the time, so unless he'd seen her in some other context, she should have been a complete mystery to him — unless he attacked her as he was charged with doing. Now, since he tested clean as far as any memory of Nell is concerned…"

"What  _about_  Nell?" came the icy, outraged question from the entrance of the Keep as Bobby Hobbes stepped through the steel door.

Monroe, Claire and Fawkes all turned to face the unknowing — and very obviously unwilling object of their concerns.

"Oh, crap," Darien muttered.

Hobbes, for all his small stature, was a formidable enemy, and every one of the well-intentioned trio was all too aware that they had wandered dangerously close to the dividing line between friend and foe.

"Bobby…" Claire began.

"Hobbes…" Alex said simultaneously.

"What are you doin' messin' around in stuff that is  _none_  of your business?" Hobbes hissed, advancing slowly towards them.

"Hobbes, this isn't what you think," Darien tried to reassure his livid partner.

"So." The tiny, furious nod was enough to tell the three would-be do-gooders that understanding from the man they'd hoped to help would be difficult to come by. "This is what my 'friends' do behind my back. While I'm stuck in the frickin' file room, my  _partner_ ," the vitriol in the word made Darien flinch, " and his little pals start rooting around in stuff they don't have the first clue about!"

"Bobby, it's  _not_  what you think," Darien repeated, hands raised in appeasement as he approached Hobbes slowly.

"How the hell do you know  _what_  I think? Did you even bother to  _ask_  me?" Hobbes snarled, fairly vibrating with rage.

"No," Darien admitted cautiously, "I didn't. Because I know how you are, Bobby. You're the first one to jump in with both feet when someone else needs help, and you're the very last one who'll admit when  _you_  need help."

"That's because I don't  _need_  help. Not from you, not on this. It's over, Fawkes. Now walk away from it," Hobbes growled.

"But -" Darien protested, about to try and tell his enraged partner what Claire and Monroe had learned in their jaunt to San Quentin, but got no further than that before Hobbes launched himself at Fawkes with a roar, knocking him backward against the administering chair in a sprawl.

"Stay the hell away from this, Fawkes!" Bobby's angry warning was punctuated by windmilling blows that connected randomly and haphazardly all over Darien's abdomen and chest as he struggled first to shield himself and then to restrain his out-of-control partner. Darien had seen his partner lose it on one or two occasions but he'd rarely been the unfortunate one to trigger it, and it took a split second to grasp that Hobbes was in deadly earnest, so angry that all his close combat skills were forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Darien flashed on the months of training Hobbes had put him through to provide him enough skill to defend himself in circumstances like this, appalled that his first real test of that training would be against his teacher. But the slashing drive of Hobbes' fist towards his vulnerable belly galvanized reflexes he'd so recently acquired, and he rolled once, clearing the blow that landed with an audible smack on the caramel brown naugahyde of the chair. He scissored his long legs, catching Hobbes by surprise, giving Darien just long enough to get his feet under him and he ducked low, wrapping his arms around Hobbes' waist, bodily lifting him off the floor and dropping him into the semi-reclined chair on his back.

Trying to hold Bobby was like trying to hold the tiger Darien had nicknamed him after, and Fawkes found himself shouting for Monroe's aid, or Claire's, anyone's, so that he wouldn't have to land a blow that would incapacitate his best friend. He was deaf to everything except the harsh rasp of his and Bobby's breathing, and the snarled curses running like battery current along a naked wire; painful, annoying, but not fatal. "I could use a little help here!" he called out, only to have Monroe seize one of Hobbes' wrists, pinning it, while Claire snapped the wrist restraint into place. He hung on to the other as Hobbes writhed in the chair.

Alex lunged at one of Bobby's ankles, throwing herself across his calf to keep him from wriggling loose while Fawkes pinioned Hobbes' other wrist in the restraints. Claire rushed to wrench the restraint around the ankle Alex had immobilized, all three of them shouting pleas to stop that went unheeded by the enraged agent, until in desperation, Darien slammed a fist against Hobbes' jaw, stunning him into immobility.

Panting, Fawkes stooped, hands on his knees, head lowered, trying to catch his breath as he muttered his personal mantra; "Aww, crap…"

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The darkness slowly cleared from his vision as Bobby massaged his aching jaw, working it from side to side to ensure it still functioned as intended. He ignored the trio of worried voices that murmured in the background. His ankles and wrists had been released from the chair's restraints at some point while he was recovering consciousness, but he made no effort to stand, still dazed and vaguely disoriented. The only thing he could concentrate on was the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach as memories he'd done his best to bury slowly replayed in his mind's eye.

Along with the memories came the inevitable emotional baggage that he'd tried and failed to leave behind for the last five years. Baggage that had scarred him and left him fundamentally convinced his days as a serious agent were all but over if he blew his last chance, here, at the nameless agency that had approached him after his last meltdown. And now his partner and best friend had dredged the whole thing back up again, triggering all the feelings of inadequacy, failure and desperate loss that had gone hand in hand with his dismissal from the FBI.

"Hobbes?" came the tentative query from beside the chair.

Bobby ignored it, closing his eyes against the uncomfortably bright overheads, hoping Fawkes would just go away and leave him alone.

"Bobby?" the worried tone in his partner's voice made Hobbes sigh and open his eyes, turning his head to stare grimly at the rangy man standing beside him.

"Leave me alone, Fawkes," he said, and looked away again. "Leave this whole  _case_  alone. You don't know what the hell you're messin' with."

"Yeah, actually, I think I'm starting to," Darien disagreed and pulled up Claire's stool to sit down beside the administering chair. "It wasn't your fault, Bobby. Sayles didn't attack Nell Murdy."

Hobbes snorted softly. "What difference does it make now?" he asked bitterly, glaring at Fawkes.

Darien scowled back at him, forehead creased in concern. "The difference is, whoever  _did_  attack her is still out there, somewhere," he said sharply. "And it means the case isn't closed, Hobbesy. Not by a long shot, no matter what the FBI files say." Fawkes sighed and ran his hand over his spiky hair, the worry in his face deepening. "And it means that you weren't responsible for what happened."

"The hell I wasn't!" Bobby snapped coldly. "It doesn't matter who attacked her! I bailed on my partner, Fawkes. I wasn't there when she needed me."

Fawkes chewed on that for a moment, then slouched, locking his gaze intently on his partner. "Then why don't you tell me exactly what happened, Bobby. From the minute you got handed the Campus Killer case to the minute they put you on psychiatric leave?"

Bobby stared back stubbornly. "Go to hell, Fawkes," he said simply.

Darien sighed and got up from the stool unhappily, walking away. Hobbes could hear the resumed low conversation and did his best to tune it out. It was relatively easy in the face of the painful memories that circled in his head and heart. Fawkes simply had no idea what Nell's assault had taken out of him. He didn't blame the assistant director of the FBI who'd signed off on the psychiatric leave. He'd blown it. Blown it big time. The burden of that guilt had never eased in all the years he'd carried it. There had been times it had nearly been too much for him. His sojourn in Mexico just before he'd been partnered with Fawkes had pretty much been the bottom. He'd been teetering on the edge of another breakdown when a whiny wet-behind-the-ears punk with a glandular problem had landed on his lap.

It had been the challenge of keeping Fawkes alive and in one piece that had pulled him back from the brink. The absolute determination never again to leave a partner vulnerable had given him a focus. It didn't hurt that Darien Fawkes was basically a good kid with an instinct for this line of work that Hobbes would never have credited him with when they'd first met. He'd very quickly come to like the guy, though it had taken a lot longer before he really trusted him. But when Darien had risked his life to protect him, Bobby had realized that Fawkes was suddenly more than a partner; he had become a friend. Which had only made him more determined never to repeat the mistakes that had led to Nell Murdy's assault.

And now his friend and new partner was rooting around in the most painful part of his life, reopening wounds that had scabbed over but never healed. Nothing would ever take away the pain and the guilt of his failure to back up Nell no matter what justification he'd used at the time. It was inexcusable. In a situation where he'd felt he had to choose between his wife and his partner, he'd chosen his wife. And his partner had paid the price.

"Bobby," came Claire's sweetly accented voice.

He sighed. "What, Keepy?"

Claire lay a cool hand over his forehead, then gently cupped his lower jaw so she could examine the darkening bruise left by the blow Fawkes had used to end his struggles. It ached, and he knew from experience it would for a good while. "That must hurt," Claire observed softly as she replaced her hand with a towel-wrapped icepack. "Can you hold that in place for a bit? It'll keep the swelling down," she suggested. Resigned to enduring the unwanted attention, Bobby raised his hand to take over the task of icing his jaw.

"Bobby, I know this is the last thing you wanted to ever have to think about again, but Darien is right. Richard Sayles didn't attack Nell. Which means whoever did is still on the loose, and it's our job to stop him. I need you to tell me what happened that night."

The last vestiges of his earlier rage flickered, flared briefly, then died, replaced with the fatalistic knowledge that Claire and Fawkes were right. Long-honed investigative reflexes stirred unwillingly to the fore and he sighed. His responsibility as an agent, whether of the FBI or the Agency, wouldn't let him so easily stand aside and do nothing to bring a criminal to justice. "It started a long time before the night Nell was attacked," he said with resignation. He heard both Darien and Monroe edge closer, ignoring them, falling back on the illusion that he and Claire were the only ones in the room. Doctor-patient privilege was as close to absolution as he was ever likely to get, and the last six years of psychotherapy had primarily dealt with the events surrounding that ill-fated investigation. Claire, too, was his doctor, after a fashion, and he closed his eyes, leaning back into the chair, and let the fantasy of being in his therapist's office free him to speak.

"After the McEvy case, with Jones doin' his best to ruin whatever rep I had at the Bureau, no one would work with me. They all pretty much bought into his line of bull that had me playing the paranoid nut job who didn't know when to walk away from something. Nell got assigned to me… Or maybe she volunteered. She never would tell me," Bobby sighed.

"Anyway, she and I, we got to be friends. She was one hell of a forensic psychologist. She should have been the lead profiler when the Campus Killer case blew up in our faces, but 'cuz she was stuck with me as a partner, she came in on second string. Still, we worked the case like we was told, doin' the leg work and the scut work for the lead team after the second murder made it pretty clear we had a serial case on our hands. One dead co-ed is a tragedy. A dead co-ed and a dead cafeteria worker from the same campus inside a month of one another is a frickin' disaster, when they're both bludgeoned to death after bein' sexually assaulted." Bobby paused, opening his eyes to glance at Claire whose concern was clear in her face.

"I don't know what it was about the whole case, but it was makin' me nervous as hell. I had extra sessions scheduled with my therapist to try and get a handle on it, and he even put me on more meds, but it wasn't doin much to help. I still couldn't focus on anything." He went quiet as memories of the case and the circumstances replayed in his head, the doubts and feelings of inadequacy boiling up again as if they'd never eased. "Viv was working on the UCSD campus then as the office manager for the ROTC office there. I was scared to death she'd be next. I mean, I knew the first two attacks had happened on the State campus, but when the third attack went down at the local community college and another co-ed was killed the same way, it was pretty obvious that this guy wasn't picky about which school he used as his hunting grounds."

"That's when you gave Vivian the Taser as an anniversary present, isn't it?" Darien asked quietly from behind Claire's shoulder. "You wanted her to be able to protect herself if she had to."

"I…. I know I was outta line, but I can't explain it. I  _knew_  something awful was gonna happen. I  _knew_  it. Viv and I'd been having problems for a while, but me heading off the deep end over this case was pretty much the nail in the coffin as far as our marriage was concerned. We'd done the marriage counseling thing, and she'd asked me to move out by then. But it didn't stop the obsessive thing. I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, I spent all my time worrying about her, and it started to get to the point where I'd be callin' her at work, checkin' on her seven, eight times a day." He sighed and closed his eyes again. "She said I was smothering her, getting in her way, and she was just so…"

"Pissed off?" Darien suggested into the long silence. Hobbes snorted with bitter irony, in absolute agreement with the choice of words.

"Yeah, pretty much. That was when she handed me the divorce papers. I flipped out. And then, the next day, a first year Lit professor was found dead in a garbage dumpster behind the cafeteria on the UC campus, on the other side of the Quad from the ROTC office."

"Oh, man," Darien said softly. Even with his eyes closed, Bobby could tell what sort of expression his partner was wearing. The shocked, wide-eyed look that reminded everyone he turned it on of a woebegone puppy; it was a look that could be both calculated and spontaneous.

"This whole time, Nell was tryin' to get a handle on the creep doin' the killin' and tryin' to keep me outta trouble. She was tryin' to tell me that maybe I should think about changing therapists, since Doc Barry wasn't doin' much to keep the lid on things -"

"Wait, wait, wait! Barry? That's  _it_! Hobbes, was this the same guy Carelli said blew his cover?"

Thrown off by the sudden change of topic, Hobbes opened his eyes to look at Fawkes, confused. "Huh?" he managed.

Darien stepped around Claire to crouch down beside the administering chair. "This is important, Hobbesy," Fawkes told him gravely, looking him searchingly in the eyes. "Remember when ASS stuck us in The Community?"

Bobby nodded, still uncertain where this was going.

"When Carelli tried to get us killed, remember what he said about your therapist blowing his cover? He blamed you for telling the guy what your mission was, and it ended up getting Carelli sent to the Community, right?" he stared into Bobby's eyes worriedly.

Bobby felt the blood drain out of his face as the implications sank in. "Oh, crap," he whispered.

"For those of us who didn't know there was going to be a test today, would one of you mind filling the rest of us in on what the hell you're talking about?" Alex Monroe's acerbic query distracted Hobbes from the vast void that had opened up in the pit of his stomach.

Darien rose to his feet again, turning to face Claire and Alex. "In '91, when Bobby was still CIA, his partner Jack Carelli and he were on assignment in Germany, keeping an eye on things after the wall came down. They got involved in some sort of covert thing that went south, and Carelli was apparently killed in action while Hobbes was out of action having his yearly psych evaluation. And I'll just bet it was Barry's idea that you do it right then, wasn't it?" he asked Hobbes in an aside. "When Hobbes and I got to be temporary house guests of the Agency of Sequestered Seclusion, who do you think we ran into, but Hobbes' old pal, Jack?"

"So Carelli's cover got blown and he was put on ice. So what?" Alex prodded for more information.

" _So_ ," Darien came back at her with equal sarcasm. "Carelli's cover was blown because Hobbes talked to his therapist about the mission, and it turns out, Barry was a mole," he finished.

The look on both Claire's and Alex's faces was enough to tell Bobby that the connection had been made.

"Oh, dear," Claire murmured.

"Crap," Alex spat.

"Yeah. Big time," Darien agreed dryly.

Darien paced back and forth beside the dentist's chair Hobbes lay on, the same one he'd spent so many painful hours in, oblivious to the role reversal.

"You're telling me that Bobby had the same therapist while he was in the FBI that he had while he was in the CIA?" Claire was asking Alex, clearly confused by this.

"The Department of Justice uses contractors to provide mental healthcare just like they use preferred providers for every other type of healthcare," Alex informed her. "It's easier to clear one doctor who can work with all the branches than it would be to clear doctors specifically for each branch," she clarified. "And you've gotta know that most of the time, they don't recommend switching back and forth between therapists because it takes months to build trust and rapport, so it only ends up setting the patient back if they keep moving around."

Claire nodded, acknowledging this. "Yes, alright, I see that part, but what I don't understand is, if Jack Carelli was forced into ASS's community after his cover was blown by Doctor Barry, why wasn't the Doctor removed from practice and placed in Fort Leavenworth?!" Her outrage crackled in the air like heat lightning, and Darien steered clear of her as he paced, his mind whirling, analyzing what he knew, speculating on the missing pieces, wondering just how deep this mess went.

"Presumably because the CIA hadn't figured out the source of the leak," Alex pointed out. "All they must have had at that point was the knowledge that they had a mole. It took years to pinpoint Aldrich Ames, remember?" she added by way of example.

"Bobby, what meds were you on?" Darien asked his partner, grasping at straws and knowing it. He heard Claire behind him stop mid-comment as she turned to listen to the answer to that question.

The stricken look on Hobbes' face spoke volumes to Fawkes, who was only too familiar with having the rug pulled out from under his feet the way Hobbes had just experienced. "Same ones I'm on now," he mumbled, dazed. "Zoloft and Lithium, for the bipolar stuff… Oh, and there was a new one."

"Bobby. Bobby," Claire said sharply. "Do you remember what it was?"

Hobbes' brow furrowed as he struggled to focus on the question. "Ritalin, I think. Yeah, that was it. He said it would take care of the ADD, and let the Zoloft help me get a handle on my obsession over Viv's safety," Hobbes supplied after a long moment's thought.

Fawkes turned to Claire, hoping for an opinion on this. He got one. Claire's face was pale, lips drawn into a thin line of fury as she spun on her heel and rushed to her computer, dropping into the chair in front of it and punching away at the keyboard with unmistakable haste. In the pause as she waited for the information she'd requested to come up on the monitor, she swore. "That bastard," she whispered as she turned to face them, eyes wide and horrified. "Ritalin was absolutely insidious," she spoke, her voice shaking. "Everyone's heard of its use in ADD, so it would have gone unremarked by anyone but a pharmacist, or another therapist. Ritalin, in conjunction with Lithium, produces an increase in paranoia and disassociative disorders and can greatly increase depression. The list of physical symptoms includes just the sort of inability to control feelings of impending doom, anxiety, and insomnia Bobby described, and a whole host of other things. And if the dose was started off at elevated levels instead of gradually increased, the impact of the symptoms would be even worse. That  _bastard_!"

"You're telling us this guy was messing with my head?" Hobbes spoke up, the stunned look still hovering in his eyes.

"Yes, Bobby, that's exactly what I'm telling you," Claire agreed, voice quivering.

"So all the time I was trying to get my feet under me, Barry was trying to kick them back out," Hobbes went on flatly, the slow rise of anger finally breaking through the stunned disbelief. Darien breathed a sigh of relief, knowing an angry Hobbes was one who still had some fight left in him.

"All those extra sessions where we went over and over all the worst case scenarios I was comin' up with, that was just to tip me over the edge? Get me so mixed up about what was real and what wasn't that I'd lose it, that I wouldn't be able to tell which was which any more?"

Claire nodded again, unable to answer.

Hobbes stared at his friends, rage rekindling in his dark eyes.

"There's just one big problem with this scenario, Claire," Alex pointed out grimly. "Even if Barry was messing with Bobby's mind, it doesn't tell us why. And it doesn't tell us who really assaulted Nell Murdy."

The four of them stared at each other gravely.

"It had to have been Barry who attacked Nell," Darien said with total conviction. "Why go to all the trouble to make swiss cheese out of Hobbes' brain unless it was to set Bobby up for something?"

"That doesn't track, Fawkes," Alex disagreed. "There was no reason to kill Agent Murdy, certainly not and make it look like the Campus Killer," she argued.

"Then we're still missing something," Darien retorted. "Barry wouldn't screw up Bobby's meds and push him over the edge just for the thrill of it. If that's all he wanted, then he could have done it years before." He started pacing again, head bowed, hands crossed behind his back as he circled the reclining chair.

"I think we need to have a little chat with Doctor Barry," Alex confirmed. "If we can find him. I'll start asking around. See what I can find."

"And I'll take a look at the forensics and see if I can gain any more clues on who it was who actually assaulted Nell," Claire spoke up firmly.

"I think I need to go back and have another little chat with Nell's husband," Darien added.

"I'm goin' with you," Bobby said grimly as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the chair.

"You sure you're up to it? I clocked you pretty hard," Darien said apologetically, reaching a hand out to steady his partner.

Hobbes snorted. "Takes more than you've got to cold-cock me, Fawkesy," he assured Darien as he got to his feet, standing steady. "Let's go."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Bobby?" Darien asked quietly as he followed his partner out into the Agency parking lot towards the battered tan van that resided in the far corner.

"What," Hobbes responded. It wasn't a question, and Fawkes hesitated before continuing.

"Back in the Keep. Why wouldn't you tell me what happened?" he asked, trying unsuccessfully to conceal the vague hurt that small lack of faith apparently signified for him. "Why'd it have to be Claire you opened up to?"

Hobbes exhaled softly through slightly pursed lips. "She's a doctor, Fawkes," he answered without making eye contact with his partner. "She's heard stuff like that before."

"And I'm not, so I haven't? Heard things like that, I mean? Christ, Bobby, I've done time in prison. You think I haven't seen and heard things that make this look like a walk in the park? I thought you knew we were brothers, man. I mean, you're always looking to know every crappy thing that's ever happened in my life. But God forbid I should ever know anything about the mysterious Bobby Hobbes. You know, you talk a good game about being partners, but you don't really believe it. If you really respected me as your partner, you'd have told me about Nell." Darien turned away with a slight sigh of disgust.

Hobbes unlocked the van and climbed in the driver's side, reaching across the bench seat to unlock the passenger door to allow Darien inside, using the delay to force himself to respond honestly. "I was afraid. I figured you'd react like everyone else has, and label me a disgrace," he confessed flatly, the very idea hurting.

Darien, in the middle of climbing onto the bench seat, stopped, stunned, and stared at Hobbes in dismay. "What?" he asked, plainly not believing his ears.

"I figured if you knew how bad I messed up with Nell, there's no way you'd stick around as my partner," Bobby said, staring out the windshield of the van so he wouldn't have to look at Fawkes. "I chose between my wife and my partner, and Viv left me, and my partner nearly ended up dead."

Darien flopped onto the seat and tugged the door shut after himself as he thought about that statement. "Jeeze, Hobbes…." He turned to face Bobby, hitching one long leg up on the seat as he stared earnestly at Hobbes. "How long we been working together -- two years? How many times have I put my life and my  _sanity_  into your hands? What the hell does a guy have to do to prove that he trusts you? So you made a choice, Bobby. I probably would have made the same one, too, if I'd been through everything you had during the Campus Killer case, what with Viv handing you the divorce papers in the middle of everything, and then the screw-up with your meds -"

"No. Fawkes, it wasn't the meds. It was  _me_ ," Bobby interrupted sadly. "I'm the screw up. I'm the one who's been running around with screws loose for years, now. Ever since Beirut. I was there when that truck bomb was driven into the embassy. I watched men I served with die. Why the hell do you think I went into the spook business? I was sick of not knowin' what the big picture was, of getting broad-sided with stuff like that! Why the hell do you think I want to be involved in the CTD program?" he went on, not able to help the increasing agitation in his voice. "It was the same damned thing all over again. We got caught with our pants down, Fawkes. Those planes on 9/11 shouldn't have been able to get anywhere near those targets. It was lousy intel and worse analysis that let them slip through." Hobbes took a deep breath, fighting for calm. The long silence from the other end of the bench seat finally made him turn to look at Fawkes.

Darien was sitting there, the stunned expression on his face slowly giving way to a sort of anger that Hobbes had seen him display very rarely, and usually only in conjunction with Arnaud. "That mother fu...," Darien cut himself off, reflexively clenching his fists, knuckles white as he smacked them into his thighs. "I almost hope he has slipped through the cracks, just so I can damage him for you." Fawkes' anger was palpable, but what made Hobbes relax for the first time since he'd walked into the Keep to overhear Claire talking about his former partner was the realization that it wasn't him that Fawkes hated. "Bobby, blaming yourself for being worried about your wife, when from the sound of it, Barry did everything he could to make you into a paranoid nutcase, is like blaming a paraplegic for not being able to chase a pickpocket!"

Hobbes met his partner's serious brown eyes at last, searching them for any sign that Fawkes was merely giving lip service to the idea that Bobby was in no way responsible for what had happened. What he saw was anger and outrage — on his behalf, instead of directed at him. "So you don't want to forget the partnership?" Hobbes asked softly, glancing at Fawkes but unable to meet his partner's eyes as he waited to hear the response.

"Hobbesy, I couldn't forget it if I tried. 'Sides, Monroe's too high maintenance," Darien responded with a wise-ass smirk, and Hobbes felt a slow smile start to twitch at his mouth. "Anyway what kind of partner would I be if I walked away from this now, huh? Left you twisting in the wind?" Darien's indignant question was more than enough to convince Bobby that old fears had clouded new relationships, and he sighed, embarrassed at having judged Fawkes by the actions of others.

"I'm sorry. Fawkesy… It's just been a while since I've had someone in my corner, no matter what the odds were lookin' like. Know what I mean?" he asked, hoping for forgiveness for having misjudged his partner.

Fawkes smiled back, the smile widening to a grin. "Oh, yeah, buddy, believe me. I know  _exactly_  what that's like," he assured, holding out his hand in the gesture that had become ritual for them: the low five.

Bobby felt his tentative smile creep wider, and slowly, deliberately, he reciprocated the gesture. "Partners," he affirmed finally. "Guess I'd better think about changing shrinks to someone outside the DoJ system, huh?" he cocked a sarcastic eyebrow and his partner.

"Bet Claire can give you some recommendations," Darien agreed, slapping Hobbes on the shoulder lightly.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act 4

 

Matthew Brookes looked up from the mountains of paperwork that heaped his desk as the door of his office burst open to admit a slender Asian man pursued hotly by his flustered secretary.

"Sir, you can't come in here without an appointment!" Veronica chastised the interloper, trying to seize the man's wrist and halt him.

The unexpected visitor evaded her and reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat, pulling out an ID which he flipped open, flashing it at Brookes. "Thomas Yoshida, Office of Professional Responsibility," he introduced himself brusquely. "I need to speak with you regarding the request you made the other day for secure files on a former Agent, one Robert Hobbes. And I need to know who it is that's nosing around in the Richard Sayles case again," he announced, turning to glare at Veronica, who flushed and backed out of the office quickly, shutting the door after her.

"What?" Brookes managed, startled. "What business is it of OPR's whose old records I request?" he asked, setting his pen on the desk warily. "I'm the director of this office. It's my right to review any files I damn well please!"

"And as a director, you know that OPR's business is anything it wants to make its business." Yoshida answered. He settled into the chair opposite Brookes, returning his ID to its pocket.

Brookes scowled uncomfortably. "I didn't request the records for me. I pulled them for Hobbes' current partner," he admitted.

"By my understanding, Hobbes is currently employed at the 'Agency', some cold war relic that's been eeking out a modest existence for years. What I want to know is, why is the FBI sharing classified information with that operation?"

Brookes shifted uncomfortably, not for the first time regretting having agreed to Fawkes' terms. "Well, actually, I'm trying to recruit Hobbes' current partner back into the Bureau," he confessed. "He's not too keen on coming in without Hobbes, so I figured the fastest way to break the apron strings was to show him his partner is washed up," he concluded.

Yoshida frowned. "What's so special about this agent that you'd go out of the way to share classified documents with him to get him to come aboard?"

Brookes mulled over an answer that wouldn't leave him looking like the fool he was beginning to feel like. "That's a little hard to explain, Agent Yoshida. Suffice it to say I had the approval of the LA Office's Senior Agent in Charge last year to try and make the pitch. Why is classified, but I'm not exactly acting on my own initiative here. Darien Fawkes has… certain skills that would make him a valuable asset."

"I suppose I'll have to accept that, at least until I can confirm with the RD," Yoshida backed down. "But it doesn't explain why the Assistant Director and my office have suddenly been fielding calls on the Sayles case," he went on.

"I don't know anything about it," Brookes said flatly, knowing he was likely to be thought either incompetent or obstructionist in his refusal to talk, but he really had no clue what Fawkes had been getting up to. He supposed he ought to have realized that Fawkes had some unspoken agenda when the ex-con had approached him about rejoining the Bureau, but he'd underestimated the man. If the little punk was getting the attention of the home office back in D.C., then there was a great deal more to him than that fancy invisibility trick.

"Well, then, Agent Brookes, I suggest we find out," Yoshida said grimly.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Albert?" Claire inquired as she stuck her head into the main computer control room, looking for the Agency's resident electronic whiz and general all-purpose lackey.

"Yes, Doctor?" Eberts responded, poking his head up from under the counter that served as the heart of the Agency's information-gathering apparatus.

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I interrupting something?" she asked contritely.

"No, Doctor, I'm only upgrading some of the USB connections…"

"Actually, Albert, I really need your help," Claire interrupted the impending litany of electronic technobabble, broaching her reason for invading Eberts' favorite sanctuary.

"Of course," Eberts agreed as he scrambled to his feet, dusting off the smudgy spots on the knees of his standard gray suit and retrieving his jacket from the back of the chair on which he'd hung it. "What can I help you with?" he asked as he shrugged into the coat and straightened his tie self-consciously.

"I need to recreate a crime scene based on the evidence in a five-year-old case file. I'm looking for any evidence that can distinguish between two murder suspects."

Eberts frowned slightly. "I'm not entirely sure I understand," he admitted. "What case are you referring to? The Agency has only rarely investigated murders," he pointed out. "Only a half-dozen times in my tenure here, as a matter of fact."

Claire grimaced ruefully. "Actually, it's not an Agency case, strictly speaking…" she confessed.

"I'm afraid I still don't understand," Eberts replied, confused.

Claire tucked her hand through his arm and led him gently out the door of the control room as she explained. "As you know, Darien obtained permission to review Bobby's old file from the FBI," she told the executive assistant, whose confusion began to give way to anxiety.

"Oh, dear," Eberts mumbled unhappily, all too certain he was about to be recruited deeper into something that would undoubtedly get him into hot water with the Official. He was also frankly amazed at Darien's apparent ability to cajole two of the most intelligent, independent females Eberts ever met into doing his bidding. Perhaps the ex-con should receive an A+ in CTS for that alone. "I don't -" he started, only to be interrupted by Claire's ongoing explanation.

"Alex and I have determined that the man accused and convicted of the assault did not in fact have anything to do with it. The only other suspect is Bobby's former psychiatrist, Doctor Cyrus Barry."

Eberts stumbled to a halt in the middle of the hallway, shocked. "Yes, that was the name I found associated with the insurance ID number Darien brought me, but Agent Hobbes'  _therapist_  is a suspect?" he stammered.

" _Former_  therapist," Claire corrected as she urged him into motion again. Eberts let her steer him into the hall and waited for clarification. "It's rather a long story, Albert," she told him. Claire started down the stairs that led to the basement floor that housed the Keep, and as they descended, Eberts felt the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that told him the hot water he'd feared was rushing up to meet him.

"No, see?" Claire reached past Eberts' shoulder to point out the discrepancy on her computer monitor. "That. There. That's what I'm talking about." She tapped the mouse key and a similar grizzly image appeared on screen. "Now of the four victims we know for sure Sayles killed, the wound pattern is downward, and slightly to the left, see?" she coached. Brushing a fingertip over the screen, she traced the close-up of a horrific wound that ran the length of a young woman's face from chin to well above the ear. It was only one of many similar injuries that had essentially pulped once pretty features into unrecognizability. Eberts swallowed hard, doing his best to not think about the life that had been taken so brutally. Objectivity was key, and he focused on the minutia that Claire was trying to point out like a man grabbing for a life preserver.

Squinting intently, he allowed the knowledge of the death that had resulted from the injuries they examined to fall away, focusing instead on the tiny details that told the story of that death. Flesh and bone had been split and crushed in the wake of one blow from the spine of a heavy book, and he noted the small difference in the rate of fracturing and compression from one side of the wound to the other signaled by the varying degree of concave curvature. "It appears that the person who inflicted the blow was right handed," he guessed. "There is a very slight difference from one side of the strike to the other, where tissue seems to have been raised above the level of the wound," he finished tentatively.

"Very good, Albert!" Claire praised. "You have the makings of a first-class pathologist," she told him, and Eberts shuddered.

"I don't think I'm cut out for this particular line of work," he disagreed.

Claire smiled sympathetically and moved on to the next photo. This was of a middle-aged African-American woman with similar injuries. "This is Agent Eleanor Mae Murdy, Bobby's former partner. She was attacked when she went to a meeting with an unknown informant. There was never any record of who exactly she was scheduled to meet, and the assumption was made that it must have been a ploy on the part of Richard Sayles to entice his next victim into range."

"But wasn't the Campus Killer's MO to select victims associated with the universities and junior colleges in the area? Why would he choose an FBI agent?" Eberts protested.

"Nell was more than an FBI agent, Albert. She was also a clinical psychologist with a great deal of expertise in criminal psychology. She was a frequent guest lecturer in the criminal sciences department at UCSD," Claire explained. "She certainly fit the victim profile."

"Oh, dear…" Eberts sighed.

"Now. Tell me what you see in the wound pattern here," Claire urged.

Eberts concentrated on the injuries, trying to divorce himself from the woman who had sustained them. "They aren't as… deep?" he hesitated, not sure how to articulate what he meant.

"Describe the differences," Claire suggested.

Eberts eyed the photograph intently. "There's no ridge of tissue on the left side of the wound," he started. "The strike pattern is uniform from side to side," he added.

"Very good. Now, what does that tell us about the person who inflicted the blows?"

Eberts racked his brain, but this was considerably out of his area of expertise, and he finally slumped in defeat. "I'm afraid I haven't the vaguest idea, Doctor," he admitted reluctantly.

Claire shifted in her seat to reach towards the monitor again. "You're right in saying that the wounds aren't as deep, and the fact that they also lack the ridge definition on the left side of the wound tells me that whoever inflicted the blow was using their right hand — but it wasn't their dominant one. They lacked both the strength and the fine motor coordination to inflict the sort of punishment that the Campus Killer did on his victims. It was probably what saved Nell's life," she added quietly.

Eberts glanced at her sharply. "Agent Murdy is still alive?" he asked, appalled.

"If you can call it that," Claire sighed. "She's been catatonic since recovering from the coma the head injuries put her into. She's in a local government nursing facility. From what I gathered, it's likely she'll be there the rest of her life."

Eberts stared at her, shocked, finally understanding just what sort of pressure it must have taken to derail Hobbes' career. "No wonder Agent Hobbes refuses to speak about it. This is absolutely horrible, Doctor."

"Yes, it is, and it gets worse. There is evidence that Dr. Barry not only assaulted Nell Murdy, but that he was prescribing counter-indicated drugs to Bobby in the hopes of seriously exacerbating his mental illness. It also seems Dr. Barry was subsequently discovered to have been a mole for the Russians." Claire eyed him grimly. "None of that made it into the record of the case, since Richard Sayles was convicted of assaulting Nell as well as killing the other four victims. And Bobby was accused of negligence in his partner's attack, and then forced to resign on a psychiatric discharge."

"But," Eberts sputtered indignantly, "Robert was in no way responsible! Surely there must be a way to clear this up," he found himself saying, only then realizing he'd just stepped out of the frying pan and into the fire, as far as incurring the Official's wrath was concerned.

Claire smiled sweetly. "That is exactly why I want your expert help, Albert," she told him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien made Hobbes stand behind him, shielding his smaller partner from the peephole in Greg Murdy's front door. No point in telegraphing Hobbes' presence and being refused entrance. It'd be enough of a trick just to avoid having the door slammed in their faces when it  _did_  open… "Mr. Murdy?"

The front door opened and Murdy glared out at Darien. "I thought I told you I have no intention of speaking with you again. Especially with  _him_  here," he snapped, jerking his head at Bobby contemptuously.

"What if I told you we have new evidence in your wife's assault?" Darien spoke up, shoving his foot into the rapidly narrowing opening in the doorway as Murdy started to shut the door on them.

Murdy paused, only the sudden blanching of his dark skin telling Fawkes that the statement had registered. "What new evidence?" he asked finally.

"The Campus Killer wasn't the one who attacked Nell," Bobby said quietly. "Are you sure you want this broadcast all over the neighborhood?"

Murdy hesitated indecisively, then stepped back, opening the door to allow them inside with visible reluctance. "What evidence?" he repeated as he shut the door behind them, crossing his arms over his well-muscled chest with conscious hostility.

"Sayles didn't attack Nell," Darien stated flatly. "We don't know for sure who did, yet, but we're pretty sure it was Hobbes' psychiatrist at the time," he informed Murdy. "We're working on proving it," he added.

Fawkes was unprepared for the man's reaction. Color drained away from his face, leaving it gray under the mahogany tones of his skin, and his arms dropped to his sides as shock replaced anger. "Oh, god. Oh dear god… She was right," he whispered, voice and expression stricken.

He swayed, and Darien grabbed his arm to steady him, concerned. "Hey, there. Let's just get you sat down," he suggested and carefully guided Murdy to the nearest chair, Bobby following after them. Fawkes crouched in front of the chair in which Greg Murdy slumped, eyeing the man worriedly. "What was that about Nell being right?" he asked.

Murdy looked at Fawkes, then up to meet Hobbes' concerned brown eyes where he stood at his partner's back. "Nelly…." he steeled himself and continued. "Nell and I had the mother of all fights the night she was attacked," he said sadly. "I'd just put my foot down and told her it was me or him," he nudged his head in Hobbes' direction. Glaring at the small agent. "I told her that I was sick to death of watching her throw away the career she'd sweated blood for, just to prove her theory that you were salvageable. From everything I'd seen at the time, and from what I'd heard -"

Hobbes snorted softly.

"- What I'd  _heard_  didn't make it seem like you were worth the sort of effort she was putting into you," Murdy finished sharply, then his expression went bleak again. "I'm sorry. It looks like I was out of line, now, and back then." He was silent for a moment, then continued. "Nell said you'd gotten a raw deal. She couldn't get you to talk about whatever it was that happened before she took you on, but she knew whatever it was, it was bad."

Fawkes glanced over his shoulder at his partner to see how he was reacting to this revelation. Hobbes' jaw was clenched, tension visible in every muscle. Darien looked back at Murdy, hoping for more details. "Why did she say exactly?" he asked cautiously.

"It's not what she said, you know? It's what she wouldn't say." Murdy closed his eyes and shook his head. "I hate the damned business," he sighed. "I'd been begging her to go back to the civilian sector for over a year. I could see how close she was to burning out… It just couldn't go on much longer. And then she got partnered with you," Greg said as he glanced at Hobbes again. "You were her prodigal son or something. She made you her cause. What the hell was I supposed to think?" he asked forlornly as he locked eyes with Hobbes.

The jealousy went unspoken but not misunderstood by any of them.

"It wasn't like that," Hobbes said after a long and awkward pause.

"I know. She kept trying to tell me that," Murdy answered. "But she spent so much energy on you.… She really worried about you, you know?"

Hobbes closed his eyes. "I know," he admitted. "She's a great lady. I can't even tell you how much she means to me."

" _Meant_ ," Murdy said shakily.

" _Means_ ," Hobbes countered, glaring at his former partner's husband with absolute conviction, challenging the implied loss of all hope. "I owe her, Greg. I owe her more than you'll ever know. And Bobby Hobbes pays his bill."

The two long-time adversaries reached a silent understanding in that moment, one that had eluded them for years.

"She told me, the night… the night she was attacked, that she was afraid your shrink was either totally incompetent or was deliberately trying to screw with your head." He shook his head regretfully. "Man, we fought over that. I was so sure she was getting involved with you, and she was so damned pissed at me…." Murdy looked up at Hobbes, eyes glistening with grief. "I was outta line."

Hobbes' half-amused, half-grieving smile was forgiving. "Hey, man, I been there," he said. "My own marriage was coming apart at the same time. I guess it's no surprise you got the wrong impression," he conceded.

Murdy stared at Hobbes, then shook his head ruefully. "I think I can see why she went to bat for you," he smiled slightly. He visibly squared his shoulders and locked eyes with Hobbes. "The night it happened, she'd told me that she'd gotten proof that your shrink was doing a number on you. She said she was going to do her best to try and get you away from him. Get you some real help." He shifted slightly and steeled himself. "She kept a journal," he told them, braving the disapproval that was bound to follow this revelation. "I never told the Bureau."

"Can we see it?" Darien asked gently, knowing that the emotional logjam between the two men was still in the process of breaking up.

"Yeah." Murdy got up and walked into the hallway that presumably led to the bedrooms. "I'll get it for you."

Darien rose to his feet, turning to face Hobbes, peering down at him with concern. "You OK with all this?" he asked softly, seeing the grim expression and noticing how the lines in Bobby's face had deepened.

"No, I'm  _not_  OK with all this, Fawkes," Hobbes sighed. "I'll never be OK with having a partner almost buy it because I was too whacked out to figure out what was going on."

"It wasn't your fault, Bobby," Darien said gently, knowing that for Hobbes, it would  _always_  be his fault.

"You keep telling yourself that, Fawkes. You go right ahead and tell yourself that. But both of us know better." Hobbes turned away, gazing around the neatly maintained living room, hung with ethnic art pieces, family photos, and yet somehow bleak. Darien touched him on the shoulder lightly, offering comfort, knowing it wouldn't help, but wanting to let Hobbes know he was there.

Greg Murdy returned carrying a leather-bound book and handed it to Bobby. "You'll bring it back to me, right?" he asked as Hobbes took it from him carefully. "It's all that's left of her, really," he added.

Hobbes closed his eyes in obvious pain. "Yeah. It'll get back to you. You got my word on it," he affirmed.

"Thanks for you help, Mr. Murdy," Darien added as he followed Bobby to the front door.

"Greg. My name is Greg," Murdy said to their backs as they opened the front door, and stepped back outside into the crisp October air.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Claire looked up from her computer as the door of the Keep swept open to admit Hobbes and Darien. "Oh, good. I was just going to call you. Eberts and I have spent the last four hours working out a recreation of the assault on Nell and comparing it to the confirmed Campus Killer victims. I think the forensic evidence will corroborate the information we gleaned from our interview with Sayles," she informed them, getting to her feet and approaching them.

"Well, we may have another piece of the puzzle here," Darien responded, taking the journal from Hobbes and holding it out to Claire. "Nell's husband had her old journal, and he said the night that she was attacked, they had a fight. Apparently Nell was pretty sure Barry was up to no good, and was trying to get Bobby away from him."

Claire's eyebrows raised in surprise as she took the proffered book, opening it and scanning the entries at the end, looking for dates and comments. "It says here, that about a week before the attack, she called Dr. Barry. According to what she wrote, when she questioned him about prescribing Ritalin on top of his existing meds, he basically called her incompetent and told her to mind her own business. Barry told her that since there was no prescription record, there would be no way she'd be able to make a case for malpractice," she told them, looking up to meet two pairs of worried brown eyes.

"Crap," Darien muttered.

"Bobby, do you remember if that's true? Did Barry ever send you to the pharmacy for the new medication?" Claire asked Hobbes.

Bobby scowled and started to pace a line from the administering chair to the piranha tank, massaging the back of his neck as he struggled for recollection. "I wasn't exactly firing on all cylinders at the time, Keepy," he reminded her unhappily. "And I've spent a lot of the last five years trying to forget the details, you know?"

"I know, Bobby, but this is important. If Barry gave you samples, then there would be no record of counter-indicated drugs in your medical files. Do you remember how long you took the Ritalin?"

Hobbes shrugged, racking his brain for the information. "He started me on it after Nell and I got assigned to the Campus Killer case… Maybe 4 or 5 months." He paced some more, forehead furrowed, thinking hard. Abruptly, he turned to face the Keeper, an expression of enlightenment on his face. "Nell and I were on night shift, patrolling the State campus. I was taking my meds with the usual cold coffee swill you have on a stakeout, and she asked what the new one was," he told Claire, voice intense. "I handed her the package. It was one of those kind with the foil on the back that you push the pills through."

Claire nodded triumphantly. "Samples come in those blister packs. Prescriptions don't, generally. Certainly not Ritalin," she told them. "Alright. So Nell knew what you were on, and was suspicious of Barry and his motives in giving you Ritalin. Certainly as a psychologist, she had a good working knowledge of commonly used medications, so Ritalin would have been a red flag for her," she went on as she flipped through the journal skimming the entries. "There's no entry for the day of the assault," she frowned, turning to Hobbes again. "Do you remember what happened that day?" she asked gently, knowing this was likely to hurt.

Hobbes frowned and took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. "I really gotta go through this?" he asked reluctantly, looking from Claire to Fawkes and back again like a child trying to avoid some dreaded chore.

"I'm afraid so, Bobby," Claire confirmed with as much reluctance as he'd shown. She grabbed the back of one of her rolling desk chairs and brought it to him. "Sit down. Relax. If we need to, we can use a little light hypnosis," she assured him.

Hobbes sat down in the offered chair and rested his elbows on his knees, hands fisted together under his chin. "I'd had daily sessions with Barry since Viv handed me the divorce papers the week before, but I still wasn't dealin' real well. Then there was the fourth vic who'd turned up the day after Viv… Nell, she was doin' her best to talk me through what was happening with Viv, the case, my paranoia, all of it, but I was halfway to Pluto. Nothing was helping. I was so  _sure_ something was gonna happen to Viv, I basically couldn't focus on anything else. Nell and me spent most of that day at the coroner's office waiting for the forensics on the last vic. I was kinda outta it, pacing the halls and stuff. Finally, she told me to go home, just take the night off and relax, maybe try and talk to Viv about stuff."

The sigh he heaved was shaky, but he went on. "So I left her to take a meet alone. The first rule of engagement, and I blew it off," he said bitterly. "Never bail on your partner."

"Did she say who she was meeting?" Fawkes asked, hitching a hip onto the edge of the administering chair.

"A contact. Someone who claimed to have seen something was all she told me."

"So it could have been Barry," Darien speculated.

"It coulda been  _anyone_ , Fawkes," Bobby pointed out, discouraged.

"So. You left and went to talk to Viv."

"Yeah, I went to talk to her. To make sure she was OK. She told me to get lost." Hobbes shook his head ruefully. "So instead of going back to my partner, I staked out Viv's office and waited till she left work, so I could follow her home, just to make sure she got there OK. The killer had only killed on campus, so I figured once she made it home, she was safe for the night…"

Hobbes paused, silent for a long minute, then continued. "If I'd known Nell was meeting whoever it was on campus, I don't think I'd have left her alone," he said softly. "At least that's what I've been telling myself the past five years," he amended.

"When did you hear about what happened to Nell?" Darien asked.

Bobby steeled himself, then answered the question. "Viv spotted me. She went totally nutso on me, called the campus cops. She wanted to press charges, so I got held up in the campus police station while they checked out my ID, made sure I was who I said I was…. That's where I was when the call came in. I was in a holding cell on the same campus where my partner had just been assaulted, being questioned as a possible suspect, cuz Viv wanted to make a point. That's where Zembach found me when the team came to cordon off the scene. He put me on disciplinary leave on the spot. Told me to go home, to consider myself officially off the Campus Killer case."

"Hobbesy, I'm sorry…" Darien reached hesitantly for his partner's shoulder, at a loss for what to say.

"Yeah, well, so am I," Hobbes sighed, staring at his friends sadly. "You really think Barry attacked her?"

Claire sighed. "I don't know, Bobby. I just don't know."

"That's what we need to find out," Darien said forcefully. "We need to talk to Nell."

"Fawkes, there's no one  _left_  to talk to," Bobby pointed out, the grief more audible.

Darien turned to Claire. "That whatchamajigger. Tell me how it works," he demanded.

"As I said, it measures brain activity in response to carefully chosen questions to test the presence of memory," Claire reiterated. "It won't work on Nell."

"Why not?" Darien asked insistently. "How do you know if you won't try?"

"Darien," Claire answered, "the sort of injuries she sustained would make it impossible for us to get any useful information from her," she said wearily.

"You don't know that, Claire," Darien insisted. "How do you know she doesn't  _see_  stuff?  _Hear_  it? You haven't even met her!"

"Neither have you, Darien," Claire retorted angrily, then saw the look on Hobbes' face as he stared at her. Hope, fear, the two were mingled in painful synergy. She threw up her hands. "Bloody hell! Alright!" She turned on her heel and picked up the phone, dialing. "I want it on record that I don't think this will accomplish anything," she insisted before turning her attention to the person on the other end of the line.

"Yes, hello. This is Dr. Claire Keeply, I believe you have a patient in residence by the name of Eleanor Mae Murdy?" she inquired forcefully, proceeding to regale the unsuspecting person on the other end of the line. "I'd like to schedule some tests..."

 

~~~~

 

Claire scrubbed a hand over her eyes, the gritty sandiness telling her she'd spent far too long awake and on the job. The results of the tests she'd ordered on Nell Murdy were beginning to trickle in, and she would never have credited it, had she not ordered them herself. Nell Murdy had proven responsive to both visual and auditory stimuli. It might just be possible to use the brain fingerprinting equipment to pinpoint any memory Nell might harbor of her attacker.

Hobbes and Fawkes walked into the Keep eight hours after they'd left it, ready to hear what her research had generated, exchanging snide comments and sarcastic digs that were almost normal in tone after the strain between them in the past few days. "Well I'm glad  _some_  of us got some sleep," Claire observed with mild irritation, tired and rumpled and in need of sleep, a shower and coffee, in that order.

They both shut up instantly, managing contrite looks. "Uh, you been here all night?" Darien asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Claire confirmed. "Someone had to monitor Nell's tests, even if only from here. Not to mention light a fire under the nursing home to get them performed in the first place."

Instantly, Hobbes went serious, intent on her next words. "So what did you find out?" he asked.

Claire heaved a sigh and ran a hand through her blonde mane. "Darien's suggestion that we use the brain fingerprinting equipment on Nell may actually be feasible," she informed them, watching Bobby's reaction carefully.

Hobbes froze, eyes widening. The first glimmer of hope in them made her speak up hastily. "There's no guarantee, Bobby, you understand that?" she said, then relented slightly. "It's just that some of her tests were more promising than I had any reason to hope, based on the initial scans done at the time of the injury," she said. "As I said, there are no guarantees that there's enough cognitive function to make the test viable, but at least it's worth attempting. If nothing else, it might be the last bit of evidence we need to prove Barry was responsible."

"That's fantastic, Keepy!" Darien grinned at her.

"What exactly is going on, here?" the stentorian demand came from the door of the Keep as it opened behind Fawkes and Hobbes to reveal the Official, Matt Brookes and Thomas Yoshida standing in the hallway outside, grim-faced and angry.

"Oh, crap," Darien muttered as he spun on his heel to find three disapproving glares aimed his way.

"Oh, bum," Claire sighed as Hobbes startled, flustered into awkward silence by the sudden appearance of authority figures.

"Would one of you care to explain just what the hell is going on?" the Official repeated, his chins quivering in outrage at having his morning routine interrupted by unwelcome visitors bearing even more unwelcome news. "Why are you snooping around in a case that was officially closed five years ago?" he went on. "And why did I have to hear about it from the Senior Agent in charge of the San Diego office of the FBI and the head of the Office of Professional Responsibility for the FBI in D.C.?"

"Uh," Darien managed, a model of witty reposts.

"Well, sir, it's like this," Hobbes started, the servile tone in his voice giving away his anxiety.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The conference table in the Official's office made the battle lines clear; Yoshida, Brookes and the Fat Man on one side of the table, Claire, Hobbes and Fawkes on the other, with Eberts hovering unhappily behind the Official's shoulder.

"So you're telling me you took it upon yourself to reopen a five-year-old case just so you could satisfy some kind of morbid curiosity about your partner's past?" Borden snapped at Darien in disbelief. "And you went to the FBI to revisit the deal you made with them so you could access Hobbes' records?" The Fat Man's fury was doubtless audible down the hall outside his office, and Darien glared back at him, refusing to be bullied.

"If I'd asked you what happened to Bobby at the FBI, would you have told me?" Fawkes asked rhetorically.

"That's need-to-know," Borden started, only to be interrupted by Darien's sarcastic response.

"And in your book, I don't need to know," he spouted off the standard response to any question that the Official didn't want to answer. "Well, that's where you're wrong, boss. Hobbes is my partner. I  _need_  to  _know_." He leaned back in his seat with some of the cockiness he'd cultivated in an effort to annoy the Official since he'd returned to the Agency under his own steam. "Remember my deal?" he asked. "I'm doin' things my way, now. And my way means finding out what the hell happened to Bobby to get him stuck in this nickel-and-dime operation."

The Official opened his mouth to launch into some sort of angry response only to be interrupted by Yoshida. "It was a straight-forward case of negligence that got a valuable agent nearly killed," he snapped coldly. "The fact that the FBI got the Sayles case wrapped up as fast as we did is in no way due to any contribution made by former Agent Hobbes."

Darien straightened, leaning forward over the table intently. "Wrong, Yoshida. What you  _have_  here is a frame. Sayles didn't assault Nell Murdy." He leaned back into his seat again as he waited for that tidbit to register.

"That's ridiculous!" Yoshida countered indignantly. "That case was handled by the book, Agent Fawkes. Besides, who would have bothered to frame Sayles for Agent Murdy's assault? No one outside the case knew enough of the details to manage a convincing frame, and there's just no motive to support that preposterous theory!"

"Well, Hobbes knew enough," Darien pointed out calmly, locking eyes with the senior FBI agent.

"You're trying to tell me  _Hobbes_  framed Sayles for the attack on Agent Murdy?" Yoshida scoffed.

"No," Darien asserted pleasantly, "I'm telling you Bobby's psychiatrist did."

Stunned silence met this revelation, the three ranking agents exchanging shocked looks. It was a good thirty seconds before Yoshida could gather his wits to reply. "I think that may be the single most absurd theory I've ever heard in my life!" he snarled dangerously. "If that's the best you can do, Agent Fawkes, I'm afraid your days in the investigative field are numbered."

The snide tone did nothing to change the wry little smile that hovered on Darien's mouth, and he confidently crossed his arms across his chest, presenting the picture of relaxed conviction. "Oh, it's more than just a theory, Yoshida. There's plenty of proof. But the Bureau was only looking for the obvious answers. And if the obvious answers also just happened to get Hobbes railroaded into a section eight discharge from the FBI, then so much the better, right?" Beside him, he could feel Hobbes shifting nervously in his chair, and he bumped Bobby's knee with his own to try and distract him, as well as reassure his partner that he knew exactly what he was doing.

"You say you have proof," Yoshida stated flatly. "What kind of proof?"

"I interviewed Richard Sayles two days ago, using a new brain scan technique that registers the presence of memory in a subject when they are confronted with specific words and visual images. It proved conclusively that Sayles has no memory of Nell Murdy or the assault," Claire spoke up firmly.

"This just keeps getting better and better," Yoshida replied sarcastically. "And just what science fiction movie did this little gadget come from?" he asked snidely.

"From the research labs at the FBI's headquarters in D.C.," Claire retorted as Yoshida blinked in surprise at that revelation. "In addition to that, a detailed examination of the forensic evidence on the Campus Killer victims also shows that there is a distinct difference between the wound patterns of the first four victims and Agent Murdy's. It's fairly obvious, once you begin looking for discrepancies," she added with a hint of a rebuke.

"Sayles is right-handed and assaulted his victims with considerable strength. The person who attacked Nell was almost certainly left-handed. Though they used their right hand to inflict the blows, the pattern of tissue damage in Nell's case is noticeably different, signaling that whoever struck her was not as strong with their right hand as Sayles is. My bet would be that if Doctor Barry were to be examined, you'd find him to be left-handed." She glanced over the Official's shoulder to Eberts. "Actually, Albert and I worked on a computer reenactment of Nell's attack based on the FBI's forensic evidence, as well as the attacks on the first four victims. It makes it clear you were dealing with two different assailants," she went on, watching the Official's face cloud ominously at the mention of Eberts' involvement. She worried that he'd find some inventive way to punish his assistant unless she could succeed in diverting him.

"And then there's the words of Agent Murdy herself," Claire plunged ahead, refusing to be interrupted, opening the leather journal Darien had obtained from Nell's husband. "According to her journal, which was never admitted into evidence, by the way, Nell had begun to suspect Cyrus Barry of deliberate malpractice in his treatment of Agent Hobbes. Apparently, Barry had added Ritalin to Bobby's medications, only, because he'd given Bobby pharmaceutical company samples, there was no record of those meds in Bobby's medical history. Ritalin, in combination with the Lithium Agent Hobbes takes to control the mania associated with bipolar disorder is most definitely counter indicated. Though Ritalin is widely used in the treatment of Attention Deficit Disorder, something Bobby also mildly suffers from, when used with Lithium, it can produce a severe escalation of paranoia, inducing feelings of impending doom, disorientation, and inability to concentrate, or severely obsessive behavior. All of which were amply demonstrated by Agent Hobbes at the time. As a clinical psychologist, Agent Murdy was well acquainted with psychoactive medications and their appropriate use. In her journal, she writes that she confronted Barry about it on the phone less than a week before the attack and was essentially told to mind her own business. When she threatened to go to the state board with her complaint, he told her she had no proof, since there would be no evidence to support her claims. Nell's last journal entry is largely devoted to her questions as to why Barry would deliberately manipulate a patient into a psychotic episode." She closed the journal again and met the wary gazes of the powers that be across the table.

Darien put his elbows on the table and leaned over it. "The only thing we haven't figured out yet is why Barry would be messing with Bobby's head," he stated. "But the fact is, whatever his reasons -"

"I think I have someone here who can answer that, providing we can convince him to tell us," Alex announced as she strode into the Official's office and took up a stance behind Darien's chair. Hot on her heels came another suited man with an air of command. "This is Agent Gerard Peters of the CIA, executive assistant to the Director of Central Intelligence," she introduced her companion. "One of his agents came to pay me a visit when I started asking questions about the current whereabouts of Doctor Barry from some of my contacts in Washington," she said. "When I informed him that there was some concern over the fate of the good Doctor, I was told that it would be a wise decision to leave the matter alone. The fact that I insisted on pursuing it -"

"The fact that Agent Monroe refused to let it rest forced me to intervene directly to shut down her line of inquiry. Only she persuaded me to hear her out, as she felt she had some compelling evidence that Barry may have been involved in an attempted murder." Peters moved to the end of the table to take a seat, resting a briefcase on the walnut table. "I'm here to review that evidence," he stated, looking from one side of the table to the other.

 

An hour later, Peters, and the rest of the ranking agents as well, had seen the videotape Eberts had made of the reenactment of the assaults, read the journal entries, and seen the brain fingerprint evidence Claire had gathered from Sayles. The anticipatory silence around the table intensified as he prepared to speak. "All right, I'm willing to admit there is some circumstantial evidence to support involvement by Barry… but there is no direct evidence at this point to link him to the assault on Agent Murdy. Unless you can produce something more concrete, some piece of physical evidence, I'm going to have to insist that the case be dropped."

"Would eyewitness testimony change your mind?" Darien asked, the slight hint of attitude in his voice making Claire glare at him.

"Eyewitness testimony?" Peter's gaze sharpened as he focused on Darien. "Why wasn't it included here?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because we haven't interviewed the witness yet," Fawkes explained sarcastically.

"What witness?" Yoshida demanded.

"Agent Nell Murdy," Darien informed them, satisfied at the disbelieving looks the suits exchanged among themselves. "She's the only one who really knows who attacked her. And I'll take any bet you want to make that it was Barry," he dared them.

"I was under the impression Agent Murdy had been permanently… disabled by the assault," Peters challenged.

"Well, it looks like someone's been operating on assumptions again," Fawkes taunted. "Claire had some tests run that show Agent Murdy may have recovered enough to try the brain fingerprinting thing."

"You'll need her husband's authorization for that," Yoshida put in his two cents worth, the smugness in his voice making it clear what he thought the odds of  _that_  were.

"We were just about to go ask him when  _you_  stormed the gates and started in with the red tape," he said, unfolding his lanky body from the chair and getting to his feet. "C'mon, Hobbes, let's go talk to Greg."

Hobbes scrambled to his feet, following Darien, catching him at the door. "Got your back, there, partner," he agreed firmly, and together, they headed out into the hall.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Greg Murdy paced a tight circle on the woven Bedouin rug that centered his living room. "You're sure?" he asked, looking back and forth between Darien and Hobbes with the same hope and fear warring in his face that Bobby had experienced. "This isn't some game you're playing, right?" he asked, the last lingering trace of old hostility rearing its head for the final time.

"Claire was pretty optimistic that there's enough improvement to make it worth trying this," Darien assured him.

Murdy heaved a shaky sigh, eyes filming over, and he brushed away the wetness that threatened to spill down his face. "I told that incompetent son of a bi…" he swallowed the curse and faced them. "About six months ago, I tried to get her Doctor to retest her. I swore I was seeing responsiveness from her when I'd visit her every day after work. He said it was wishful thinking. Wishful thinking! Like I'd wish for her to be in that place! But I swear, she's focusing on me a little, and she liked it when I started brushing her hair for her. She even twitches when I tickle her. God," the word was strangled as he struggled to get a grip on emotion. "She was always so ticklish… I used to tease her all the time about it."

Hobbes nodded slightly, waiting wordlessly for Murdy's decision.

"Alright. But I want to be there," Greg agreed at last, and the look in his eyes brooked no argument.

"Fair enough," Darien conceded. "We'll give you a call as soon as Claire has the time set up."

Murdy nodded fiercely, extending his hand to each of them in turn. "However this comes out, Hobbes, I just want you to know I'm sorry."

Bobby flashed a crooked smile. "Hey, man, you were just going along with what you'd been told. It wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was. I should have trusted Nell. She swore you were getting the dirty end of the stick at the Bureau, and she went to bat for you. Only I didn't believe her. I owed her better than that. Owed  _you_  better."

Bobby stepped close enough to lay a hand on Murdy's arm shoulder. "You can't change what happened. Neither can I. And I think both of us have spent way too long trying to pretend there was something we could've done to make it different. Turns out, we were wrong… All we can do now is make sure the guy who really attacked Nell is punished for that." He paused and smiled again. "And maybe help Nelly back into the world."

"Amen to that, brother," Murdy agree with heartfelt sincerity. "Amen to that."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Nell Murdy's hospital room was standing room only that afternoon when Claire readied her equipment. Though the crowd kept their voices low, it was clear that Nell was conscious of their presence. Claire had drafted Greg into distracting his wife, soothing her with a familiar voice and hands while Claire settled the mesh skull cap over Nell's short hair and slipped polygraph finger caps onto her hands. She checked the heart monitors so that she could make sure all Nell's physical reactions would be recorded.

She had been keeping an eye on Hobbes when he first entered the room housing his former partner, fearing his reaction to the hideous scarring that had resulted from the attack. It was the first time Hobbes had seen his partner since that day, and Claire worried it would shake him badly.

She was pleased beyond belief when he had gone straight to Nell's bedside, bent to kiss her on the damaged cheek and spoken softly to her for several minutes before Claire had had to shoo him away so that she could set things up.

When the EEG equipment was calibrated and ready to use, she beckoned to Eberts who positioned a TV cart at the foot of Nell's bed, turning on the audiovisual equipment so it could warm up as Claire explained what she was about to do.

"The principle behind this particular test is based on research that proves that the brain exhibits certain patterns of electrical activity when retrieving memory, whether it's verbal or visual, or even auditory and olfactory. The FBI has developed a series of guidelines on using this completely autonomic reaction to gauge a subject's veracity when confronted with carefully constructed visual or verbal information. In this particular case, it also allows a non-communicative subject to be monitored for those same responses, enabling her to tell us what she remembers about the assault. Now, it is common for severe head injuries to produce an amnesia effect around the memories associated with the injury itself, but even in similar cases to this, there have been indications of a certain level of unconscious reaction on the part of subjects examined this way." She ignored Darien's impatient tapping of the foot, determined that this herd of non-scientists have at least a basic clue as to what they were seeing.

When she'd concluded the scientific explanations, she turned to Eberts, who waited patiently next to the AV cart. "With Eberts' help, I have assembled a video tape with a series of still images that are designed first to establish a baseline responsiveness, and then to determine her recollection of the attack. If one of you would kindly dim the lights, we can begin."

Obediently, Eberts flipped the light switch, shadows filling the room with an early twilight, only the last of the day's sunlight filtering through the blinds to light thins. "Now all of you have seen the tape I'm about to show Nell, so I would appreciate it if you could remain out of her line of sight during the test. Her responses are being recorded, and can be precisely synchronized to the video tape afterwards." Looking around the dim room for any sign of unanswered questions, she started the EEG and checked the time stamp shown by the laptop she had set up to capture results from all the monitors. "Are we ready?"

The first images that flashed on the screen were images of Murdy family members, friends, and a picture of Hobbes from his Bureau records with noticeably more hair than he had now. Claire checked the response pattern to these reassuring and non-controversial images, noting the distinct spike in the region of the prefrontal cortex that was involved in the storage and retrieval of memories. This was followed by a series of images of strangers, to test Nell's base negative reaction. When Claire was satisfied that she was actually getting a measurable reaction from Nell to these basic images, she began with the hard ones. The ones that would hopefully prove whether Cyrus Barry had been responsible for her injuries.

Initially, she wasn't sure if Nell was responding to these more problematic images. She had started with photos of the other four victims and pictures of the crime scenes associated with them. But when she got to the image of the administrative building in whose stairwell Nell had been attacked, any doubt was banished. Not only did the EEG registered her reaction, displaying a series of sharp peaks in the Beta wave reading, but her heart rate, blood pressure and galvanic skin responses all spiked with that image, and again with the three that followed, ending with a shot of Cyrus Barry that Claire had managed to dredge up at the State Board of Psychiatry Offices in Sacramento.

Nell was visibly agitated by the time the test had concluded, and Claire ushered the crowd back out into the hall, telling them she would join them in the conference room in a matter of minutes with the results. Returning to the room, she double-checked Nell, snatched up her laptop, and admonishing Greg to stay with his wife, she dashed down the hall to the conference room.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Well, Doctor?" the Official barked at the Keeper as she entered the room. "What were the results?"

Claire set the computer on the long blonde wood table and turned it so that the other eight people at the table could see the screen. "As you can see, these readings here, here and here show an exact correlation to the images shown to Nell. She positively responded to Barry's picture."

"But you said yourself that she  _talked_  to Barry," Yoshida frowned.

"On the phone, yes," Claire confirmed. "But up until now there has never been any evidence to suggest that Nell ever met him in person," she pointed out.

"That still doesn't tell us why he would attack Agent Murdy and deliberately attempt to exacerbate Agent Hobbes' mental health difficulties," Yoshida protested.

Peters scowled as all eyes turned to him.

"That was your cue," Alex spoke up sarcastically, cocking an eyebrow at the CIA agent. "I'd say we've held up the burden of proof."

"Well, I can tell you some of it," Darien interjected with a certain amount of cynicism. "We ran into another one of Bobby's partners in a little 'government retirement community' and Carelli had a piece of tasty dirt on ole' Doc Barry. Turns out, he was a mole. And Jack Carelli ended up with his cover blown after Hobbes talked to Barry about a CIA mission back in '91."

" _What_?" Yoshida demanded, shocked.

"This can't leave the room," Peters prefaced his statement, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "The mission Agent Fawkes is referring to was the first inkling we had that there was some sort of leak." He massaged the back of his neck unhappily. "We barely managed to intervene before Agent Carelli lost his life. As it was, we lost him as an active agent, and for his own protection, we were forced to 'sequester' him," Peters paused to underscore the seriousness of his next words, "Under no circumstances are any of you to breathe a word about the government entity that takes care of compromised agents to anyone  _ever_ , not even amongst yourselves." Peters let the warning sink in for a moment, receiving knowing nods from the Agency personnel, and a frown of confusion from Brookes and Yoshida. He turned to face Hobbes unapologetically. "I don't mind telling you, Agent Hobbes, you spent a lot of years on our radar. We knew the info that blew Carelli's cover had to have come from you. We had you under a microscope for almost five years. We finally had to drop our surveillance on you when we couldn't turn up any evidence to link you to any known Soviet recruitment effort."

Bobby stared at the CIA agent grimly. "I knew I was being watched…. I just never figured it was my own team," he said bitterly. Long years of experience had honed his instincts and even though he'd been ridiculed for his conviction at the time that he was under observation, it was a belief that had never wavered. "So when'd I drop off your radar?" he asked Peters, ignoring the startled speculation in Fawkes' eyes where his partner sat in the next chair.

"When you left the CIA in '95, after that little accusation of an 'indiscretion' with the Ambassador's daughter in Santa Ruego," Peters informed him sardonically. "Barry was laying low, and then, after you left the CIA, we had another incident. Only this time, we lost the Agent whose operation was blown. Since you weren't anywhere in sight on that one, we had to rethink the source of the leak. We finally narrowed it down to Barry in the beginning of '98 or so. We were starting to close in on him, putting a sting in place to take him out. He must have found out and figured that since you were still one of his patients, and had been implicated in the first leak, he had nothing to lose by making you into a suspect again."

"So he messed with my meds," Bobby said bitterly. "Not to mention my head. And when Nell found out what he was doing and threatened to go public, he tried to kill her to shut her up," he concluded.

"Apparently," Peters admitted. "Only we didn't know about any of that until your partner stuck his nose in where it didn't belong and opened up a can of worms none of us knew the full extent of before."

"So you nabbed Barry and never made the connection with the Campus Killer case," Alex observed. "But why did you intervene in Hobbes' disciplinary hearing at the FBI?" she asked astutely. "And where's Barry now?"

"Let's just say that Doctor Barry won't be seeing the outside of the military prison at Fort Dix any time this century. The last thing we wanted was another scandal like the Ames case. If it had come out that a Department of Justice cleared psychiatrist was selling privileged patient information to the Soviet Bloc, our internal security would have been even more compromised than it already was. As we'd already had one crisis of confidence, another within two years would have seriously undermined the public's belief in our ability to do our job. We couldn't allow the Bureau to subpoena Barry to testify and have the whole thing come out. So the Director of Central Intelligence requested that the charges of negligence be dismissed. Agent Hobbes was put on psych leave, which the Bureau elected to turn into a dismissal…"

"Because we didn't have all the information!" Yoshida turned on Peters coldly. "You let an agent's career go down the tubes to protect your dirty little secret?"

"Well, I don't think the Bureau is really in the position to claim the moral high ground," Peters pointed out dryly. "You people did more than your share of character assassination on Agent Hobbes."

"We weren't in possession of the complete picture, Agent Peters," Yoshida defended the Bureau.

"This is so bogus!" Darien spoke up indignantly. "Hobbes has been railroaded through two different agencies because none of you figured out what was goin' on. You just set him up as a convenient scapegoat, and ruined his frickin' career, not to mention his life," he accused the pair of bickering senior agents. "Nothing's gonna erase that, but the least you people can do is clear up his record. Make it right."

"Fawkes." Hobbes spoke quietly, and Darien subsided, though reluctantly.

"I think we can arrange something along those lines." Peters stated firmly. "And we may be able to sweeten the deal a little, if Agent Hobbes would care to consider rejoining the CIA," he added, shooting a competitive look at Yoshida.

Hobbes snorted. "Thanks but no thanks, Peters. Maybe national security gave you the right to make my life into some bad melodrama, but I sure don't gotta walk back into the lion's den again."

"Hobbes!" Darien sputtered indignantly. "Don't blow this off, man, it's your ticket outta here."

Hobbes glared at his partner and Darien shut his mouth unhappily.

"I think the Bureau can offer an alternative, Agent Hobbes." Yoshida turned to Bobby. "I know your partner was approached by the Bureau a few months ago. This time, I think the offer should be made to you," he stated. "GS10, full benefits, full retirement…" he eyed Hobbes expectantly.

"Agent Hobbes!" the Official said sharply, the words a reminder, a rebuke, and simple disbelief that Hobbes might actually be considering a defection to greener pastures.

Bobby stood a moment, letting the offer settle into his consciousness, looking around the table at the range of expressions on their faces. Fawkes was bright-eyed, silently encouraging. Alex was poker-faced, but he knew her well enough to see the glitter of satisfaction in her eyes. Claire… eyes wide, she stared back at him. He couldn't read her. Eberts on the other hand wore the strangest expression. Mingled pleasure and something Hobbes could have sworn was regret. The Official's usual sour expression had only deepened as Yoshida's offer had been made. Bobby paused silently for a long moment and then beckoned to Fawkes. Darien moved to his side as they stepped into the far corner of the conference room.

"You rigged this, didn't you?" Bobby asked Darien, looking searchingly into first one brown eye then the other. "I told you once before, Fawkes. When Bobby Hobbes returns to the majors, it's gonna be on his own average."

Darien grinned back at him fondly. "Yeah, I seem to remember having this conversation before," he agreed.

"Dammit, Fawkes, I'm bein' serious here," Bobby scolded him.

"I know, Bobby," Darien reassured him. "So am I. I remember what you said. And when the whole CTD thing blew up in that bar last week, I started wondering just what the call was that got you benched. So Claire and Alex and Eberts and me, we just did some time with the instant replay footage so we could figure out what the umpires missed the first time," he said quietly. "It's your record, Hobbesy, it always was. We just set it straight."

Bobby considered this for a moment, recognizing the truth, but still battling with the feeling of being manipulated. Which was ironic, he supposed, given that this whole situation had been about manipulation from beginning to end five years ago. "So what about you, Golden Boy? Gonna take Brookes up on whatever offer you conned him into making?" he asked his partner.

Darien shrugged noncommittally. "Nah…. I don't think so, even though I gotta admit, yanking the Fat Man's chain has a certain appeal," he said wryly. "Here, well, I can do some good. People take me seriously, sort of, anyway. At the Bureau, I'd just be a one trick pony. Not much to do there 'cept make Brookes' boys' ballpoints disappear. They wouldn't let me near a case…. And I think I'd kinda miss that, you know?"

"Yeah, I can see that, my friend," Bobby agreed ironically, smacking his partner lightly on the arm as he stepped back towards the table, Fawkes following him.

He met Yoshida's eyes as he sat back down at his place across the table. "Full benefits, huh?" he repeated. "Including paid holidays?"

"Of course," Yoshida assured him.

"Agent Hobbes!" the Official repeated, voice razor sharp with angry disbelief. Bobby ignored him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eberts bend to say something to the Official, who was looking positively thunderous by now. The furrow on Eberts' forehead was a mingling of worry and consternation, and Hobbes could almost swear he saw a dose of shocked disappointment there as well, as the Official's assistant whispered more urgently into the Fat Man's ear.

"Three weeks paid vacation?" he asked Yoshida.

"That shouldn't be a problem given your length of government service," Yoshida agreed.

"Bobby!" the Fat Man's protest spurred Hobbes on.

Still focused on Yoshida, Hobbes considered this. "Make it GS11, and you have a deal," he said to Yoshida, then turned his head to face the Official. "As long as you throw in a total overhaul for the van," he added.

The look on the Official's face was priceless, worth the last five years of casual abuse and frustration. Darien, on the other hand was grinning like a fool, and Bobby responded to the low five he saw coming without breaking eye contact with the Official. As his knuckles met Fawkes' in a rap of celebration, the Fat Man buckled.

"Done," the Official snapped, surrendering to the inevitable. "Agent Hobbes, if you ever pull a negotiating stunt like this again…" the implied threat trailed off.

Bobby allowed himself a grin. "It'll be with a different agency," he replied, leaning back in his chair.

"You've got that right," the Fat Man muttered his displeasure. "Eberts!" he snapped. "I want a full quarterly statement on my desk as soon as we get back to the office," he demanded. Glaring across the table at Hobbes, he murmured under his breath, "it's going to take some fancy accounting to fund Agent Hobbes' raise."

"Certainly sir," was Eberts' flustered response.

Bobby succumbed to temptation and winked at the disconcerted accountant. "Well,  _Eee_ berts, if anyone can handle the fancy accounting, it'll be you," he said, his grin countering the mocking sarcasm. "Oh, and I want that in writing, by the way," he commented in an aside to the Official, whose already mottled complexion went a deeper shade of indignant red.

"I take it this means you won't be rejoining the Bureau?" Yoshida inquired ironically, one eyebrow arched.

"Not at the moment," Bobby confirmed. "But I'll keep the offer in mind," he added, knowing it would further annoy the Official.

"By all means," Yoshida agreed, obviously well aware that his good faith offer had become a source of leverage. "It'll remain on file, and on the table, should you care to revisit it in the future."

"I'll remember that," Hobbes nodded his thanks.

"Do that," Yoshida suggested as he rose, followed by Peters and Brookes, and headed for the door.

"Eberts," the Official snapped. "I think we're finished here."

"Yessir," Eberts replied with alacrity, and eased the Fat Man's chair away from the table. Together, superior and flunky marched out of the conference room, the Official's displeasure radiating from him as he left. To Hobbes' surprise, Eberts paused for a split second in the doorway, turning to meet his eyes with a faint smile. "I'm pleased you elected to remain, Robert," he said simply, then turned and followed the Official.

Hobbes gaped a little, and he heard Fawkes chuckle.

"Don't look so surprised, Hobbesy," Darien teased. "Eberts is an alright guy."

"He was of considerable help in the forensic reenactment," Claire piped up, and Bobby glanced at her a little shyly, then at Monroe, whose grin was enormous. "And I'm as pleased as Albert is that you're staying with the Agency," Claire blurted impulsively.

Looking from one to the other of his friends, Hobbes smiled awkwardly, at a loss for words. "'Thanks' doesn't really cut it, you guys," he said. "But… thanks."

"You're welcome," Claire smiled charmingly at him, and then rose hastily and gathered her laptop, fleeing.

"What are friends for?" Alex commented as she stood, glancing at Claire's rapidly departing figure with apparent amusement, waiting for Hobbes and Fawkes to get up. When they did, she slipped an arm through each of theirs, and grinned at them. "Whaddaya say we blow this pop stand?" she asked, and Bobby grinned back.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Darien agreed, and together the three agents walked out into the hall, chatting amiably amongst themselves.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag

 

Hobbes paused at the doorway and self-consciously straightened, brushing imaginary lint from the front of his black polo shirt. Bracing himself, he entered Nell's new hospital room.

In the wake of her test results she had been moved to a different ward, and Bobby glanced around the spacious room appraisingly. It was a vast improvement over her previous one; the walls a pale yellow, the windows wide and overlooking the landscaped grounds of the hospital. He could even glimpse the ocean in the distance between the shrubs and palm trees. "Nice digs, partner," he commented to the still figure of Nell, who lay in her bed, gaze fixed on the window.

There were bright pictures on the wall, and several bouquets of flowers stood in vases on the available surfaces. He looked around briefly for an empty one he could use for his own floral offering, finding one and plunking his haphazardly chosen flowers into it, then adding water from the pitcher on the bedside table. He set the flowers on the windowsill where she could see them and returned to the bedside, pulling up a chair and sitting down. Tentatively, he reached for one fine-boned hand, taking it in his own and running his thumb over the knuckles that stood sharply under mocha skin. "I'm sorry I haven't been by to see you. You know it wasn't my idea to bail on you," he told her. "Greg and I kinda had a few things to work out. He's a good guy, your husband," he added. "But he sorta had the wrong idea about us, there, pal. We're square now, though. So you'll be stuck with another visitor."

Though Nell's gaze was still focused on the window, Hobbes could have sworn that there had been the slightest tightening of her fingers against his own. He squeezed back gently. "Yup, we got a lotta catching up to do, my friend," he told her, leaning back in his chair. "I got me a new partner, and a new Agency, and life's been pretty interesting the last coupla years. Fawkes, he's my new partner, he's a punk. You'd have a field day with him; a chip on his shoulder the size of Delaware, and he's the best thing that's happened to me in this biz since you picked me up, dusted me off and tried to get me back on my feet. I'll bring him by so you can meet him. I think you'll like him. Even with the attitude," he rambled, beginning to update her on all that had happened in the years since he'd seen her last.

 

Darien was waiting for Hobbes when he walked out the front doors of the nursing home into the brightness of an autumn day. He stood in the sunlight just drinking it in, thinking about everything that had changed since he'd last seen his former partner, then smiled faintly at his current one. He could see the faint worry creases in Fawkes' forehead and he walked down the stairs to meet him.

"So how's she doin'?" Darien asked quietly.

"They've got her in a new room. Brighter. Prettier," Hobbes commented as he fell into step alongside his partner, headed for the parking lot where the van awaited.

Darien nodded his approval and glanced at Hobbes, the subtle concern still there in his expression. "So how  _you_  doin'?" he asked, dropping an arm casually over Bobby's shoulder in wordless support as they walked across the parking lot.

Bobby thought about that as he unlocked the van and climbed behind the wheel. Darien clambered into the passenger seat, shutting the door and putting on his seatbelt.

"I miss her," he stated at last, putting on his own seatbelt and starting the van. "So you ready for the final exam?" he changed the subject as he pulled into traffic.

Darien let it go, laughing slightly. "Buddy, I feel like I already passed it, know what I mean?" he asked with a grin.

"My friend, I think you may be right," Bobby agreed with a grin of his own.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"I can't believe you'd  _do_  this to me," Darien whined in disbelief as he stared at the massive copy machine that filled most of the floor space in the cubby that served as one of the hearts of Eberts' domain. It was an even toss-up whether the file archives or the computer control room won out over the copy room as Eberts' favorite refuge.

Hobbes shrugged, grinning evilly. "I warned you, Fawkes. When I had to go in after you to copy the McEvy file, I told you I was gonna put the fine art of copying on the exam."

Darien cast his best wounded look at his partner. "That's just  _wrong_ ," he complained, sulky. "How often am I gonna need to freakin' collate?"

"Hey, a good agent is a master of all the tools of the trade. And that includes the Copymaster 3000," Hobbes asserted. "Look, Fawkes, you can handle a lock-pick, you even know your way around a gun now. It's a copy machine. Just ask yourself; how hard can it be?" he flashed another wicked grin at Fawkes. "Eberts can do it," he taunted.

"Oh, that was a low blow, Hobbes," Darien groused as he squeezed his way into the closet that housed the copy machine to peer at the digital touch control screen with growing panic.

"Ah, I see I'm just in time," came Eberts' voice from out in the hall as he came to a stop behind Hobbes. "I've brought a selection of documents of varying sizes, Darien. They should adequately challenge your knowledge of the basics of the Copymaster."

Darien looked over his shoulder at the smug smile on the face of the resident technogeek bitterly. "Thanks heaps," he snarked.

"I was only too pleased to help when Agent Hobbes requested that I design a suitable test of your proficiency with basic office equipment," Eberts beamed at him, and Darien turned his shocked and wounded expression on his small partner.

"You asked  _Eberts_  to design the test?" Darien wailed. "That's not fair!" he moaned. "The guy is the frickin' patron saint of copy machines!"

"So maybe you'd better start sayin' your prayers, huh, ace?" Hobbes grinned, crossing his arms over his chest and stepping back out of Eberts' way. "Let the games begin," he said as Eberts handed Darien the first item in the stack of documents, a legal-sized form that had to be an inch thick with pages.

"Three copies, please, Agent Fawkes. Color collated: buff, blue and goldenrod. Stapled." Eberts instructed firmly.

Darien stood there with the document hanging limply from his grasp, glaring at his two tormentors in the hall. "I am  _so_  going to get you for this," he muttered at them, turning to fumble helplessly with the machine's copy bed, wishing he had some clue which way to orient the original.

"Idle threats are unbecoming an agent of the US government, Fawkes," Hobbes grinned. "Hey, Eberts. You remember the stopwatch?" he asked this partner in crime.

"Stopwatch?" Fawkes squeaked.

"Of course, Robert," Eberts confirmed, holding it up. "Ready, Darien?" he asked, pressing the button. "Go."

 

 

End

 

 

 


	8. By Virtue Fall (season 3, episode 8)

Episode Eight

**By Virtue Fall**

 by A. X. Zanier

 

Teaser

_"Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall."_

_William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616), "Measure for Measure," Act 2 scene 1_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_The sun was high in the cloudless blue sky, the weather warm and dry, just a typical perfect southern California day. He sat upon the red and white checked blanket laughing in happiness. Mom was unpacking the picnic basket, which was loaded down with their favorites, even the peanut butter and bologna that Kevin preferred. His nose wrinkled at the thought of ever being desperate enough to eat that combination of substances. Separate? Sure, and often, but he had yet to comprehend how his oh-so-smart brother could not only eat it, but would often eat nothing else._

_Glancing over at Kevin, he saw his brother talking animatedly with their father, his hands waving in excitement as he explained some new discovery that he'd made. The sunlight reflecting off the wire rim glasses created sparkles and flashes off the dust motes that hung heavy in the air, each slight motion of Kevin's head causing an almost halo effect about him. For a second their Dad met his eyes, his smile sad, before turning back to Kevin as the topic changed, yet again._

_He debated going to the pair, to find out what new and confusing subject his brother had_

_encompassed the whole of, and, more importantly, why his father had looked so very sad, but didn't. Just then a brightly colored butterfly dipped and fluttered past him, distracting him from his concern and, with a whoop of glee, he set off across the field to try to catch it, but it always managed to remain just out of reach._

_He was nearly out of breath from the fruitless chase when music offered something else to focus his vast attention on. Running back up the hill towards the blanket he stopped at his father's side as the unremarkable ice cream truck rolled to a stop on the nearby asphalt covered path. The vehicle and the music inspired both boys to beg for the frosty treat that they knew lay within._

_Once agreement from their mother had been asked for and received, their dad laughed and got to his feet in one smooth motion. He found himself tipping his head back to see his father's smiling face. Tall like a tree, his father was, under which he always felt safe, where he always knew he'd belong and be welcomed._

_As his dad approached the ice cream truck the youngish driver slid the side window open, and spoke with a smooth accent that reminded him of some of those foreign movies mom would drag him to. Especially the "monsieur" the white-coated ice cream man used to greet his dad._

_Kevin was making himself useful, helping their mother set up the last few items from the picnic basket. He carefully set the glasses on the blanket, placing the odd-shaped drinking vessels precisely, reminding him of when Kevin would play with nothing but that smelly laboratory set their uncle had sent to Kev for his last birthday._

_Yet another distraction offered itself up to him as the flash of something red off to his right,_

_perhaps a snake or low-flying bird, drew his attention away from his family. The critter raced off across the grass until he lost sight of it in some thorn-laden bushes that effectively barred his way. His stubborn streak rising to the surface, he tried to force his way through, only stopping when several thorns pierced his skin. He pulled away noting the small flecks of blood that appeared on the inside of his elbows. With a frown he turned back in hopes of seeing his father returning with the treats only to find him gone._

_Scanning all of the area he could see, there was no sign of his father anywhere, but when his eyes rested on Kevin he noticed his brother had his treat. With a dark thought or two directed at his sibling, he approached the ice cream truck, hoping he'd be offered one for himself, but was instead rewarded with the roar of the engine and the music cutting off mid-note with a high-pitched squeal._

_The driver leaned out, the white jacket replaced with a suit and tie, and waved. "I'll see you,Fawkes, but will you see me?"_

_The jauntily proclaimed words suddenly caused fear to ripple across his senses, and he turned to his mother for solace only to find her lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. The drink she'd been holding flowed across the grass to coat the leaves with its sticky sweetness and make it shine in the now dimming light._

_"Mom?" he called out in a sadly pitiful voice as he moved to her side. She was laying so very still, her skin so pale that the blue veins that lay just beneath the skin were easily visible, her eyes that were normally bright and full of life were now dull and lifeless. He jumped back with a squeal, confused and terrified by the scene before him. He wanted to ask Kevin what was happening, since his older brother always knew, always had the answers even when all he could do was scratch his head and wonder what the question was._

_Popping sounds from where his brother had been enjoying his ice cream cone were swiftly_

_followed by high-pitched screams of pain and terror. The frozen confection was gone, the cone a blackened husk and whatever had been hidden within the innocent-seeming facade had impacted with enough force to knock Kevin to the ground, his glasses sitting askew on his face and some dark red substance splattered across the lenses and his cheeks. His lab coat looked tattered with a stain of the same unknown substance spreading across the pristine white material._

_He ran to his brother, his legs pumping furiously, but with little effect, the very air itself seeming to resist his attempts, slowing him and yet enhancing the moments, each second stretched out until it had been burned into his mind to never be forgotten._

_He went to his knees once the veil keeping him back had finally parted, allowing him to reach his goal. Part of him, some terrifyingly sad and lonely part of him, knew with an eerie certainty it was too late. Had been too late long before he'd turned his head to see what had frightened his brother so. Still the small child, he lifted the now adult Kevin into his arms, begging his forgiveness, pleading with him to not leave him all alone, but could do nothing else as short seconds later a shudder ran through the man who was his brother, and then Kevin too left him alone._

_He closed his eyes for an instant, a wail of pain and loss torn from his throat, when the weight, the dead weight of the lifeless body in his arms, suddenly vanished._

_A cry, one not from his throat, caused his eyes to come open in surprise. The bright day had gone, twilight in its place, the moon a heavy golden presence just cresting the hillside off to the east and rendering the figure before him in shadow. The cry repeated and he finally recognized it as belonging to an infant, a very young one at a guess based on the cat-like mewling._

_"Well, are you going to come see or not?" the figure asked quietly, with a decidedly feminine voice._

_He approached the petite figure, noting the long dark hair and slender body. She turned and though he tried to see who she was his gaze was drawn solely to the child in her arms._

_"He's perfect and just like his father," she said in obvious pride._

_The moon rose high enough then to pour its light on the infant's face who squirmed and after a second opened its eyes. At first he thought nothing was wrong, that perhaps eyes were just dark-toned, but the child shifted again, turning to face him and he then really saw the eyes as they glinted cruelly in the light. Glinted with the deep blood red of Quicksilver madness._

"No!" he shouted both in the dream and into the darkened apartment as he jerked upright in his bed. It took him several long minutes to convince himself he was awake, that the sheets tangled and twisted about his legs were the reality and not the infant that was very near his worst nightmare come true.

He ran a shaky hand through his sweat-damp hair and tried to slow his breathing to something resembling normal instead of the harsh hitching in his chest that was currently failing to transport enough oxygen to his air-starved lungs. Hyperventilating and passing out might get him a couple hours more sleep, but he knew it was not the best way to go about it.

It took several more minutes, but he finally calmed enough to catch his breath and form a sentence. The variety of choices that rattled through his mind was preempted by two simple words that often summed up the odder moments of his life.

"Ah, crap."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

::Cue Theme Music::

**There once was a tale about a guy who could turn invisible. I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me. OK, so here's how it works: There's this stuff called 'Quicksilver' that can bend light. My brother and some scientists made it into a synthetic gland, and that's where I came in. See, I was facing life in prison and they were looking for a human experiment. So we made a deal; they put the gland in my brain, and I walk free. The operation was a success... but that's when everything started to go wrong.**

::Music Fade Out::

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act One

 

_Confucius, in his great wisdom, once said something along the lines of, "Heaven, when it's about to place a great responsibility on a man, always first tests his resolution ... Only when he is frustrated in his mind and in his deliberations can he stand up anew. Only when his intentions become visible on his countenance and audible in his voice can he be understood by others. ... Only then do we realize that anxiety and distress lead to life and that ease and comfort end in death."_

_For most of my adult life I've lived on the edge, as a thief and, once I got caught and had it stick, as an ex-con. I tended to keep people at a distance; friends were few and far between._

_Can't call the local fence a friend; hell, if you're lucky he won't give up your name when push comes to shove and the cops have his back up against the wall. Then I let Kevin cut me, what I thought, was a sweet deal to get me out of jail on a third strike._

_If only I had known._

_The last six months, though, have been some of the best in my life. Yeah, I'm still stuck with_

_that unwelcome guest in the back of my head and at the Agency, but It's not quite as bad as I once thought. Not quite that dead end that I figured it was going to be._

_The madness is long gone by now, the only reminder that emerald green snake coiled quietly on my wrist, and I have friends. Real friends, ones who would do anything for me and, surprisingly, that I'd do just about anything for in return. Life's been damn good lately, even with the inevitable bumps that happen along the way._

_The thing is I wish someone had mentioned that all of that was just a pop quiz._

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien walked slowly down the quiet halls of the Agency headed for the Official's office. Most days he wouldn't be caught dead within its environs before 10:00 AM unless there was some desperate need, but Hobbes' phone call just after 7:00 AM had actually been a relief and given him an excuse to get up instead of tossing about and pretending to try and fall back to sleep. What, after all, was there to do once you had memorized every crack, crevice, and paint chip in the ceiling above your bed?

Finding himself not very hungry, he'd done nothing more than shower and grab a cup of coffee on the way in, figuring he'd make up for it later. Swinging open the door he found four members of their backwater agency huddled over a pile of files at the conference table. Whether they were multiple copies of the same file or a variety of different files he could not determine through the crush of bodies.

He was actually surprised to see Alex Monroe poring over the papers right beside Hobbes.

She'd been gone far more often than not lately, there'd been that fun job involving those poisonous creepy crawlies that had effectively blow several weeks of sick leave. Then there was that job with the Treasury Department that they'd helped her out with and her assistance in clearing Hobbes' record with the FBI. All in all they hadn't worked together a whole lot since moving back under the purview of Fish and Game. He wondered a bit idly if she was still doing okay or if she was once again suffering from the subtle effects of stress and overwork. She appeared to be fine, her focus on the papers before her as she flipped through one of the files herself. She gave him a quick glance, but her blue eyes were as unreadable as ever.

"Fawkes, you are gonna love this one," Hobbes commented as he looked up to see his partner sipping from a huge cup of coffee and looking like he hadn't slept in a week -- again.

"Why do I find that very hard to believe?" Darien set down the cup and circled around to stand behind Alex in hopes of getting a look at the papers over her shoulder. The disparity in height between the two of them made her the easiest to try this stunt with.

"Fawkes, ever hear of the term 'personal space'?" Alex complained, adding an elbow, without any great force behind it, to his midsection for emphasis.

"Heard of it, yeah. Ain't had much use for it since I started sharing my personal space with this cute little gal I never quite met a couple of years ago." At Alex's look of confusion, he considered his attempt at distraction successful and reached around her to grab several sheets of paper out of one of the files.

"Fawkes, as usual, you are making no sense whatsoever," Alex commented in exasperation.

"'Afore your time, Monroe. We did a stint..." Hobbes began.

"A, thankfully, very short one," Darien added as he looked through the papers without really absorbing any of the information.

"Too true. With the Bureau of Indian Affairs," Hobbes completed his original thought and

glanced at Monroe to assure himself that he had her attention. "Well, on that fun little camping trip, the Keep spilled that the gland is chro...chromos..." Hobbes looked to his partner for rescue who was doing his best to ignore the conversation with little luck.

"Chromosomally female," Darien finally filled in just to get the day moving in a forward direction again.

"Yeah, that," Hobbes agreed with a sly grin.

Alex closed her eyes for a second and shook her head. "You mean..."

"Yep, Fawkes' better half is all in his head." Hobbes couldn't resist; he'd been holding onto that one for a while.

Darien glanced up from the papers to see the carefully hidden grin on his partner's face. "Cute, Hobbes. At least I have a guaranteed date Friday nights."

"Bobby Hobbes does not have any problems where the ladies are concerned, gland-man. In fact, last night there was this brunette..." Hobbes' recitation of his adventure, real or imaginary, was interrupted by the Official.

"Trade fish tales on your own time! You're here to work, not kibbutz," the Official barked, effectively ending Bobby's story as well as any inquiries Alex might have into Darien's more feminine side. "I have a job for you and it's high priority." He backed away from the conference table and made his way to his accustomed spot in the overstuffed chair behind the desk. He settled into it with a creaking of straining springs and cheap imitation leather.

"What could be so important that you drag me in here so early?" Darien asked through a yawn as he sat down on the edge of the table and reached across for his coffee. After taking a sip he began to thumb through the papers. On the bottom was a photograph that got his attention and brought his awareness fully on the 'here and now.' He swallowed hard, trying to ignore the sudden feeling of his stomach following the laws of gravity and heading to his feet, and didn't even notice when Alex removed the coffee cup from his hand and set it down to keep him from spilling it.

"I'm guessing I missed this one," Alex commented at the stunned look on Darien's face.

The Official cleared his throat. "You were on an out-of-town assignment at the time. Eberts will make sure you have the file." The lackey in question moved swiftly over to the row of file cabinets and moments later handed her a file with the codename Invisible Woman on the brightly colored tag. "That should get you up to speed for this one."

"How long?" Darien asked softly once he had found his voice.

"At least a week, Fawkes," Hobbes answered as he handed over several more photographs. Most were taken with a high-powered telephoto lens, so the quality wasn't all that great to begin with, the images pixilated from computer enhancement and slightly out-of-focus. While most were through windows with curtains and other objects obstructing the view, it was still easy to identify the individual. At least for Darien.

Mei-Lin Chong. After a moment's brief reflection on the last time the woman had been in his life Darien tossed the photographs and papers on the tabletop and shrugged. "So she decided to go back to work for the Chinese after all. She told me she never wanted to leave in the first place."

"According to our sources she is not there willingly," Eberts explained as he straightened up the papers Darien had strewn across the table.

"And that makes it our business, how?" Darien would rather not have to deal with this particular situation. He had enough problems with women leaving him to not want to actively court giving them a chance to do it more than once. He and Mei-Lin had parted on good terms, and he knew leaving to be with her fiancée Chen-Po Li was justified. But still, it had hurt.

"That Quicksilver backpack of hers, Fawkes," Hobbes replied, in a tone that made it obvious Darien should have figured this out for himself.

"That, and the Quicksilver recycler that goes with it," The Official added. "Quicksilver is my technology, and I plan on keeping it that way."

"So we go in and get her out. Gotcha, Chief," Hobbes stated, anticipating the Official's orders. "Think those relationships of yours can get us the layout and security schematics to the Chinese Embassy on short notice?" he asked as he turned to Alex.

Alex set down the file she was holding and thought for a moment. "Give me an hour, and I'll have what we need."

"Perfect. Get moving," the Official said in obvious dismissal.

Out in the hallway they trailed after Alex, who was heading to her office to get started on those phone calls. Darien stared into the bottom of his cup, dismayed to see it was nearly gone. Except for the temporary bucket of ice water the pictures of Mei-Lin had thrown on him, he was no more conscious than he had been when the dream had first woken him at o-dark-hundred. He sighed and downed the dregs with little hope they'd do any more to wake him than the entire twenty ounces that had gone before.

"You look like crap, my friend. Trouble sleeping?" At Darien's nod Hobbes frowned. "That dream, again? That's, what, the fourth time this week? I think it's about time you go talk to the Keep."

Alex turned about to face them, but continued walking backwards at a fairly brisk pace. "Aww, does Fawkes have a girl on his mind other than the one already there?"

Darien shot her a look and considered for all of a heartbeat not making some rejoinder, but found his mood poor enough to not fight the urge very hard. "Actually it was the fun one, having both my mom and brother die in my arms. The screaming myself awake is always the perfect capper for it." He stopped as Alex's eyes narrowed and turned to Hobbes. "Ya know, I think you're right, I'm gonna head down to the Keep and talk to Claire. Let me know when we're ready to roll."

"Can do, partner." Hobbes waited until he was sure Fawkes was out of earshot before rounding on Monroe. "Good going, there, Monroe. Nice seeing you prove that Five-Star-A rating ain't just for show."

"Hobbes, how was I supposed to know?" Alex sounded harsh, mainly to cover her embarrassment.

"True enough, but I'm thinking that, after all this time, maybe you should have." Hobbes turned smartly on his heel than and walked away leaving Alex standing there in the hallway.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The day was cool and the sky was that washed out blue common to desert regions with a slight breeze that was just enough to ruffle the hair. Darien leaned back against Golda trying to soak up some of the heat from the sun-warmed metal while Alex and Hobbes argued over the computer. For a second he debated questioning the merits of doing this during the day. Shoot, it was just after noon and he still hadn't gotten anything to eat, just the coffee from this morning, which was long gone by now. Going through his pockets he came up with a stray piece of chewing gum, unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. Yet another attempt to trick his body into thinking he'd eaten. It was getting to be a very bad habit these days.

"Come on, guys, sometime this decade. The Keep'll have the gland out before you two agree on anything."

The side door suddenly slid open violently and nearly knocked Darien off his feet. "And since when did you ever want to work?" Hobbes asked as Darien straightened and shot Hobbes an annoyed glance.

"Since about 10 minutes ago when I realized I was not only bored out of my mind, but starved. Listening to the two of you bicker like an old married couple hasn't upped my enthusiasm any, let me tell you." Darien then proceeded to parrot back with the correct tone and inflection of Hobbes and Alex's commentary of the last five minutes.

Alex suddenly appeared next to Hobbes. "I'm impressed Fawkes, you were actually paying attention." She handed him the headset. "Let's see if you can continue in that vein. You should be in and out in under 10 minutes if you follow my directions."

"Your directions?" Hobbes rounded on Monroe and Darien rolled his eyes. "Last I checked Fawkes was my partner, and you were assisting us on this one."

"Last I checked this fancy gear that is going to get him in and out was mine, and its assistance can suddenly be revoked," Alex snapped right back. She and Hobbes had been going at it ever since this morning, and it didn't look to be improving any time in the near future.

Darien put the earpiece in place. Alex always managed to get a hold of toys that were far above the quality of the equipment that the Agency could ever hope to beg, borrow or steal, even second hand, on its shoestring budget. He walked away, the Quicksilver flowing across his skin and clothes as he neared the wall he was planning to climb with the aide of a conveniently placed tree. Once he dropped into a crouch on the perfectly manicured grass on the far side he spoke in a carefully enunciated undertone. "I'm over the fence. I see three cameras and four guards. Which way?"

"Fawkes, we're 'round the other side from our last visit here so pay attention," Hobbes said in Darien's ear; in the background Darien could just make out the sound of keys being tapped.

"Circle around to the left; there should be a garage area." Alex's voice was calm and perfectly in control. "Watch for a covered walkway that leads into the main building. Enter there and take the first right; it should be a flight of stairs going down."

"Got it," Darien responded in a soft voice. His Quicksilvered vision washed things out but he had little trouble following her precise directions. Since they were making this attempt during the mday they were expecting most of the heavier security to be turned off and so far that seemed to be holding true. He spotted armed personnel and cameras everywhere, but nothing else: no laser grid, no motion sensors, nothing he couldn't handle in his current invisible condition.

This wasn't so very different from the last time he'd been here, though he was hoping things would turn out a bit better this time. Somehow he doubted they'd let him get away as easily if he were to be caught again, and considering he'd been forced to set a room afire to escape the last time...

Alex's voice drew him out of his trip down memory lane.

"Once at the bottom of the stairs you need to turn left. There should be a hallway with three doors off it: two on the left and one on the right," Alex's instructions were well timed and spoken just as he reached the bottom of the steps. They'd worked together just enough that she had a good handle on predicting his movements and time from location to location. Wide hallways led off to both the right and left; three cameras covered the stairwell and the entrance to both hallways.

Hobbes spoke then. The slight bite to his tone was audible to Darien. "According to little Miss Assistant, there should be cameras all over the place and electronic locks on the doors. Your target is the door on the right. It should have a ground-floor window."

Darien approached cautiously not wanting to attract the attention of the two guards standing about 10 feet away at the end of the hall. The door he wanted had a small barred window set in it, and he slid the cover open carefully. Inside he could see a woman seated at a desk as she turned to reach for a book on a nearby chair. The profile was the same, the scar tissue still taking up half her face, but it was indeed Mei-Lin.

The radios the guards were wearing suddenly crackled to life. Darien didn't understand most of what was said, but recognized Mei-Lin's name when it was spoken.

"Crap," Darien muttered under his breath as the two men each drew out a pair of thermal glasses and proceeded to put them on. A definite upgrade since their last encounter some six months ago. It didn't take more than a second for them to spot him.

Darien ran.

"Fawkes? Talk to me, Fawkes," Hobbes shouted in response to both Darien's invective and the sudden wakefulness of the security system on the computer screen before them.

"They spotted me and have thermals," Darien panted as he dashed back up the stairs and turned right, opposite the way he had come in and taking him deeper into the Embassy proper. He dove into an alcove, grabbing the expensive-looking vase as he bumped it, making it wobble on its stand. He got it steadied just as three more guards came running around the corner all wearing identical stylish sunglasses.

"Ah, sh..."

"Fawkes, get the hell out of there," Alex ordered, cutting off his words.

Darien wanted to yell something at her, but bit his lip to keep it inside. No sense in giving away his position any sooner than necessary. Poking his head around the corner to see if the way was clear he noticed the camera swinging back and forth high up on the wall. Just seconds later it locked on his position and shouts were heard coming his way.

"They've upgraded since our last visit," Darien commented as he made a mad dash for a doorway about 15 feet away. It was with a feeling of great relief that the door swung open without effort. However, instead of the hoped for escape route he found himself in an oversized broom closet. A quick glance about showed no obvious cameras. "Their camera system is rigged for thermal."

 Hobbes turned to look at Alex, unable to resist a jab. "Looks like your relationships aren't as good as you thought."

Alex grunted and tapped a few keys. "Fawkes, I need your sit-rep."

"I'm in a broom closet." Darien's voice was muffled.

"A what? Repeat sit-rep," Hobbes asked, not believing what he had heard.

"I'm in a fricking broom closet," Darien repeated, sounding more than a bit irritated at the moment.

Hobbes covered his mic with a hand. "So we have to figure out how to get Fawkes out of the closet?"

Alex's eyebrows shot up at the obvious joke.

"I heard that," was the bitter and completely unamused response. "Could we get me the hell out of here?" his voice lowered to a mutter.

"Working on it." Alex was tapping the keys furiously trying to get a handle on the system in hopes of leading him out through the maze of hallways and cameras. "The gland's pretty damn useless if they can still see him," she grumbled as yet another potential escape route was suddenly cut off.

Darien heard her words and a sudden inspiration struck.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_The guy who taught us that the answer to Life, the Universe and Everything is, strangely enough, 42, also gave us the seemingly nonsensical, "A common mistake that people make when trying to design something completely foolproof was to underestimate the ingenuity of complete fools."_

_I was about to prove this right or die trying._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The Quicksilver flaked away as Darien began poking through the items in the room looking for something, anything that might give him an assist on his slightly insane idea of how to get out of there with his skull intact. In a back corner he found a half dozen all-purpose industrial work jackets. He sorted through several of them before he found one that might be close to his size. Slipping out of his tan leather coat and pulling on the heavy cotton jacket, he had a flashback to his second stint in prison when he worked in the laundry, which was used as a low-cost laundry service for some of the hotels and restaurants in the area, and had washed thousands of these a week. His newest acquisition somehow managed to be both too wide across the shoulders and too short in the sleeves, though he bet that was pretty typical of the species and he decided to take it anyway. Rummaging around a bit more he came up with a baseball cap, the Cubs of all teams, and shoved it atop his head, stuffing his hair underneath in hopes of hiding as much as possible.

After a search that stretched out over long minutes he succeeded in finding a bucket, into which he placed his favorite coat and some rags, that smelled distinctively of some nefarious cleaning solution, which he reluctantly used to hide his jacket. He then began unscrewing the tops of various bottles, finding one that had to be some Chinese version of moonshine, until coming across a bottle that he decided was ammonia, based on the smell, as his studies had not yet included reading Chinese characters for cleaning products. He stuck that in the bucket to complete the effect and then moved to the door of the room, leaning close to the dark wood in hopes of hearing what, if anything, might be on the other side. Unfortunately the wood was more than thick enough to keep him from hearing anything more than the stentorian sound of his breathing echoed back at him.

"Hobbes, is the hall clear?"

"Hold on," Hobbes replied, and Darien waited impatiently, counting a double score of slightly unsteady heartbeats that seemed to take an hour or more to pound against his ribcage. He forced himself to stay as calm as possible; the very last thing he wanted to do right now was Quicksilver.

"Looks clear of mooks, but the cameras'll still see ya," Hobbes reminded Darien needlessly.

That was exactly what he was planning on. "Only if they're looking for an invisible man." Darien opened the door and stepped out, without hesitating or sneaking, making sure to act as if he belonged there. He slouched down a bit to reduce his height, but if he was right, no one would notice since they would be looking for a cold spot on the thermals and not the normal body temperature everyone else would be throwing off.

"Fawkes, are you insane?" Hobbes spluttered.

"Alex, talk me out of here." Darien kept his head down and his steps brisk. Just another poor soul schlepping off to clean up some mess those in power had made and couldn't be bothered with.

Darien didn't respond as he dodged three men with large automatic weapons coming around the corner. All three were wearing thermals and, except for one bumping into him, they didn't even look twice and just kept going. He followed Alex's directions, but was still relieved when he was back in comparatively familiar territory. As he passed the staircase that led down to where Mei-Lin was being kept he was momentarily tempted to make another try at freeing her, but the shouts of armed soldiers dissuaded him. Besides, the longer he dallied here the greater the chance that his current luck would run dry. Someone was bound to remove their thermals or the cameras would be switched back to normal video as their search failed to turn him up.

Making his way back outdoors he sidled around a van and tried to plan his way out. "Guys, I'm outside but need a way off the grounds. Think you can help?"

There was silence at first, and then Alex's voice was in his ear. "Near as we can tell the exterior cameras are on a separate system and are most likely not rigged for thermal."

"Most likely? How about better odds than that?" Darien noted a couple of the soldiers poking their heads outside and he ducked low, the hedgerow hiding him from direct view for the moment.

"Fawkes, trust me on this, do your saran wrap routine and get out of there. Head for the back gate. They got a delivery truck coming in and if you move your ass you should be able to get out while it goes in." Hobbes rattled this off quickly, obviously not liking the situation or the odds as they currently stood. But as they had learned in Atlantic City, when you can't win with the hand you're dealt, cheat.

Darien Quicksilvered and stood, half expecting there to be a sudden outcry and a hail of bullets aimed in his direction, but there was no reaction that he could see. Following the over-sized one lane road the van was parked on towards the rear of the Embassy's property, he found that back gate. He had to run as the semi-truck was already rumbling through the comparatively small opening, a single gate as opposed to the double gates of the main entrance, but succeeded in slipping through the swiftly closing barrier just in the nick of time. The only sign of his passage, the metal bucket still in his hand, connected with the metal bars of the gate and gave off a loud clang that made the soldiers there look about in confusion, but nothing else.

Once he was free and the subtle fear of being caught had eased, he made his way down the street to where he knew the van to be parked. It wasn't until the comforting presence of the crappy Agency Ford Econoline and his partners within were in sight that he felt safe enough to drop the Quicksilver, the tiny flakes catching the sunlight and reflecting it for scant seconds before completing their downward journey to the concrete sidewalk beneath his feet.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The trio of irritated agents, two of whom were still arguing, made their noisy way through the near-empty halls of the Harding building towards the Official's office to report on their less than successful mission. Darien had given up on trying to intervene on the sniping going on between Hobbes and Alex. Every now and again he would interject some comment that seemed to do little more than egg one or the both of them on to further heights of nit picking. He banged the bucket against his thigh, his jacket draped over his shoulder in hopes of airing it out a bit. The smells pervading the rags had tried to seep into the leather of the jacket with, thankfully, limited success.

"Well, if you'd gotten the intel we needed..." Hobbes sneered at Monroe who just rolled her eyes and increased her pace to put a little more distance between them.

"I got more than your little Hobbes-net ever could." She raised her hands to physically include the quotes for the nickname of Hobbes' infamous list of contacts and connections. While often surprised by the info he was able to gain with it, right now she was not in a very good mood. Her contacts had screwed up in a major way and had nearly resulted in Fawkes becoming a guest of the Chinese government for a potentially long and deadly stay.

Hobbes charged ahead, then stopped dead, physically blocking her way, and rounded on her. "All right, Monroe, let's see what you really got. Hobbes-net versus that fancy Rolodex of yours." When all she did was stare at him, her heels bringing her height up to almost match his so they could glare at each other eye-to-eye, he added in full pure-d New Yorker, "Or are ya chicken?"

Alex laughed, a harsh, derisive sound that echoed off the cheap plaster walls and spoke volumes for exactly what she thought this little challenge of Hobbes'. "Oh no, little man," she took that one last step forward so that she and Hobbes were literally standing toe-to-toe, "just name the time and place."

"I'll start the betting pool." Darien pushed between them and opened the glass inset door with the gold numbers stenciled upon it. He ignored the glares leveled at him by both contestants, plastered a false grin on his face, and held up the bucket for the Official and Eberts to see. "We're back, and I brought souvenirs."

Setting the bucket, which now contained the ill-fitting janitor's jacket, the Cub's cap and cleaning supplies, he slid it down to the end of the table with a slight curve to its movement so that it parked itself perfectly at the rounded end of the ovoid table. All that bowling was paying off apparently.

He heard Hobbes and Alex enter the room, still grumbling at each other, and forced himself not to comment. The drive back to the office had been filled with the joyous sounds of their

bickering, which had given him a headache of epic proportions.

"Where is Dr. Chong?" the Official inquired gruffly.

"Ah well... you see..." Hobbes began, heading straight for apologetic and obsequious.

"Damn, Hobbes, brown nose a bit do ya?" Alex snapped out as she stepped pointedly away from him and his excuses.

Hobbes went instantly on the offensive. "It wasn't my intel that screwed the pooch."

She continued walking away until she was lounging coolly by the windows. "Your intel couldn't find a stray mutt much less the detailed description of security..."

"Enough!" the Official roared, which effectively shut up both agents and focused their attention on him, where it belonged. "Fawkes, can you manage to explain without the extras?"

"Huh? Oh. Yeah." Darien sank into a chair and rubbed his forehead for a second. "Their security cameras were rigged for thermal, as was everyone inside." Thinking about it, now that the adrenaline rush of fear was gone and he was no longer having to listen to Hobbes and Alex play the blame game with each other, the whole damn thing stank. "Almost like they knew we were coming," he muttered aloud, meeting the Official's cold blue eyes.

"Fawkes?" Hobbes questioned, looking from his partner to his boss and back again.

"We suspected, but were unable to confirm the upgrade to their security." Eberts commented from his traditional position behind and to the right of the Official.

"You sent Fawkes in knowing he might get caught?" Alex asked with only a hint of astonishment leaking into her voice.

"It was a risk, but a reasonable one." The Official leaned back in his chair and rested his hands upon his ample midsection. "Even if he'd been captured, they probably wouldn't have held him for very long."

"Why would they give him up?" Alex was not enjoying the sensation of having missed something and being forced to all but beg for clues and tidbits just so she could play catch up.

Darien and Hobbes gave each other a meaningful look as the pieces, several of which Alex was missing, fell into place for them.

"Again?" Hobbes complained.

"Yep, milked like the prize Quicksilver cow that I am." Darien's voice held just a touch of bitterness. "And they don't even give cookies and juice after."

"Milked? Now, this I have to hear." Alex's sarcastic tone was firmly in place to cover the fact that she had no idea what either man was talking about.

"Later, Agent Monroe. If Dr. Chong has provided the plans for the backpack and the recycler they still need one key component." the Official left the sentence hanging knowing one of them would finish the thought.

Alex rolled her eyes and finished the rhetorical statement. "The Quicksilver." She shook her head, not sure she wanted to hear the illogic behind this one. "So you set Fawkes up? Why? You can't want them to get the Quicksilver?"

"Of course not. However, Agent Fawkes' attempt to free Dr. Chong kept their security occupied elsewhere, allowing me to hack into their mainframe," Eberts answered with a hint of smugness.

"So we was a distraction," Hobbes growled as he sank into the chair next to Darien.

"And, for a change, you did the job right the first time." The chuckle coming from the fat man behind the desk grated on the partners. "If you had also succeeded in retrieving Dr. Chong it would have been perfect."

"Did you at least get what you were after?" Darien asked of the suited geek in the corner who frowned slightly.

"While I did successfully infiltrate their system, I am, as yet unable to make use of the data." Eberts' look had gone from smug to embarrassed. "Not only is it in Chinese, but it is encrypted using an algorithm with which I am unfamiliar."

"So now what?" Alex asked brusquely, making it plain she'd had enough of the entire fiasco.

"You still have to retrieve Dr. Chong," The Official stated as if it should have been obvious.

Hobbes raised a hand to gain the attention of his superior. "Uh, Chief, maybe you missed it ...

The place is rigged for thermal. If Fawkes goes see-through..."

"You'll have to find an alternate method then, won't you." The ring of finality in his tone made the trio facing him indulge in a collective groan.

"And you will need to move tonight. According to my sources they plan to move Dr. Chong within twenty-four hours," Eberts explained, unperturbed even when all three pairs of eyes locked onto his with matching glares.

"So you want us to waltz right back into the hornet's nest we stirred up today?" Alex summed up with a delicate curl to her lips that bordered on a snarl. "Beautiful, just beautiful." She paced back and forth a few steps, thinking, but getting nowhere fast at the moment. "I'll be in my office."

"Yo, wonder woman," Hobbes called out, stopping her with her hand on the doorknob. "You planning on putting that yellow lasso of yours to use or what?"

"Golden," Darien corrected automatically.

Hobbes turned from gazing at Monroe's well-shaped backside to the bored look on his partner's face. "Huh?"

"Wonder Woman's lasso was golden, not yellow," Darien repeated with more detail.

"Golden, schmolden, it looks yellow in the comic books," Hobbes countered as Darien sat up a bit more in preparation to defend his side of the lasso debate.

"Boys, could we skip the Justice League lesson and get back to the matter at hand?" Alex ground her teeth for a second in total frustration. It was a wonder that anything ever got accomplished around here.

"Oh right." Hobbes refocused on Alex who was tapping one toe in impatience. "What you planning?"

"I plan on getting the intel we need to get this over and done with tonight." And with that she yanked the door open and smoothly exited the room, the only evidence of her mood the sharp clicking of her heels on the cheap linoleum of the floor.

Hobbes turned back to Darien who was rubbing his forehead. "Hungry?"

"Starved."

"Burgers?"

"Nah." Darien pushed himself to his feet and grinned as the perfect meal came to mind.

"Chinese?"

Hobbes snorted in amusement. "Yeah. And we'll bring some back for Monroe."

No sooner had the door had shut behind the two agents than the phone seated on the corner of the Official's desk rang. He waited until it had rung four times before slowly picking up the receiver and holding it to his ear.

"I've been expecting your call."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Two

 

Eberts slid the chair back and waited for the Official to sit, sliding the chair into the proper

position as he did so. Eberts then unrolled the silverware from the cloth napkin and carefully tucked it into the collar of the Official's pristine white shirt. Placing the silverware precisely on the table he waited for the Official's acknowledgment that his current task was complete and sat in the seat to his boss' right once it had been received. There was a reason those in his position were called "right-hand men."

Across from them, and already well into their meals, were the assistant to the Chinese

Ambassador and his ostensible secretary, who was in actuality his personal bodyguard. They had already gone through their salads and were working through plates full of spaghetti with a gusto that hadn't waned even though this was the third meeting here.

"Next time I'll have to introduce you to another of this country's culinary delights." The men paused their inhalation to look at the Official, waiting for him to complete his sentence. "Fish tacos."

Manke Kong, assistant to the Chinese Ambassador, swallowed and lifted the napkin to wipe his face. "You would be wise to be very careful today. The Ambassador is not happy with your little attempt earlier."

"Attempt? I'm afraid I have no knowledge of what you are referring to." The Official raised a hand slightly and seconds later a waiter appeared by his side.

"The usual, sir?" she asked, with notepad and pencil already in hand.

"Hmmm, no. I think today I'd like to try the veal parmigiano with the marinara sauce." The Official had memorized the menu long ago. "Eberts,"

"Spinach tortellini with the garlic Alfredo sauce. And an order of the garlic bread sticks," Eberts answered swiftly, not wanting to delay the Official's meal any longer than necessary.

Once the waitress had hustled away with the order Manke Kong spoke up again. "We know your invisible man was at the Embassy today."

"We have him on video tape if you need actual proof," Kairong Ma added, then twirled his fork in his linguini, a large ball of pasta making the tines of the fork vanish, far more than he could ever hope to fit into his mouth. He surprised them by doing exactly that, opening his mouth more than wide enough to slip the entire mass inside and close his lips about it, the fork reappearing empty mere seconds later.

"And how can you be certain that was my invisible man?" the Official countered.

"Are you suggesting there is another one?" Kong asked with an upward twitch of one eyebrow.

"We are not at liberty to confirm or deny the rumors of another invisible man at this time," Eberts interjected smoothly.

Ma snorted. "Same plausible deniability line we always hear. Can we just get this over with? I would much rather enjoy the fine cooking here at Luigi's than debate what we both know is true."

The Official chuckled. "So you taught him to speak, Kong, I'm impressed. However, he does have a point. If our man did pay an unscheduled visit to your Embassy, it was only to verify the health and well being of a... guest who is currently under the protection of the US government."

Kong's look turned momentarily dark, and he set his fork down with a clatter on the edge of the melamine plate. "That guest is a Chinese national and will be returned to her homeland."

"A homeland from which she defected, I seem to recall," Eberts corrected in a bland tone.

This time the glare was aimed at Eberts. "Perhaps she changed her mind."

"Then you wouldn't mind allowing us to ask for ourselves." The Official was growing tired of this banter. They all knew exactly what was going on. All he had to do was push the right buttons and he was quite certain they would dance on the end of their strings just like he wished them to. "I am aware of your guest's... condition and why you are so very interested in said condition." Better to dodge about the edges of the subject a bit more. If he came on too strong they would simply leave and any potential negotiations would be ended prematurely.

The two gentlemen looked at each other and began a rapid-fire discussion in their native tongue.

"Eberts?" the Official leaned over slightly and asked in an undertone.

"My apologies, sir. They are speaking in Hokkien, and I only have a grasp of Cantonese and Mandarin." Eberts' voice was filled with dismay. They had been counting on a discussion of this type to occur, but had not anticipated the possibility they would be speaking one of the lesser-known dialects of the country.

The waitress arrived then, with their orders, and set them down with a swift economy of motion. She was out of their way quickly, and Eberts inquired with a look and slight head motion as to whether or not the Official would like him to perform his usual duties, which included slicing the meat into bite size pieces.

The Official glanced at his plate and shook his head; the small medallions of tender veal would not require Eberts' services today. Besides it might give them a stronger bargaining position if it appeared that Eberts had more power than his position would suggest.

By this time the men across the table had wound down, neither looking very happy with the situation. "I'm afraid speaking with our guest would be impossible at this time."

"Come, come, I can't imagine you want a squad of Marines outside your walls demanding the release of..." The Official was cut off by an exasperated sigh.

"If you were to attempt something like that, justification for the use of force would need to be given, and then your invisible man would not be quite so invisible to the public eye," Kong sneered.

"And your projects would remain any more secret?" Eberts was unable to resist the well-placed jab.

"Gentlemen, all we are asking is that your guest remain in this country where those better able to deal with the special circumstances of her condition can be made available to her," the Official offered expansively, a false smile of goodwill upon his face.

Kong and Ma exchanged a glance heavily laden with meaning. "Perhaps we could be persuaded if something were offered in return." Kong dropped the ball firmly in the Official's court.

"Something that would put your research back to where it was... say, six months ago, perhaps?" was the Official's play. This deal was one that he had always known might happen and though he was adamant that the Quicksilver technology remain within his sole purview, he had to at least give the appearance of willingness or they would get nowhere. Never mind the fact that any offer made here would have to be approved by those back in Beijing and likely to be just as lie-laden as his own words were. But this was how the intelligence business worked, all sweetness and light when face-to-face and no mention of the black-clad figures wielding knives slipping in the back door.

Kong straightened in his seat, his interest piqued. "So you would be able to gain access to and return an item that went missing?" The Official gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. "Then, it is possible our guest could remain at the Embassy until her... condition has changed."

Ma spoke up then in Hokkien.

"Ah, yes. As I have just been reminded, I personally, do not have the authority to finalize an agreement of this nature," Kong explained with just the right hint of regret in his voice.

"Of course, I understand. Those with the real power must make the decision." The less than subtle cutting remark went over just as well as the Official had hoped. "You must understand I am under pressure from those above me to resolve this situation quickly."

"I will take this to the Ambassador and will recommend haste in resolving the matter." Kong dropped his napkin to the table, slid his chair back and stood. Ma followed suit a moment later. "You will be contacted in 24 hours."

"I'll await your call with bated breath," the Official responded and watched as both men turned and left.

The waitress appeared at his side with what was obviously the bill for the pair that had just left.

"Eberts,"

"Sir," Eberts responded instantly.

"Make a note that it's our turn to stiff them for the bill next time," the Official told him as he picked up his fork to indulge in the rare pleasure of Luigi's veal.

"Yes, sir."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_"I have known a vast quantity of nonsense talked about bad men not looking you in the face. Don't trust that conventional idea. Dishonesty will stare honesty out of countenance, any day in the week, if there is anything to be got by it." -- Charles Dickens_

_Have to agree with ole Chuck there. In my time I've used nothing more than slick words and an innocent look to get myself in, and out, of all kinds of trouble. Hell, I'd mastered the whipped puppy look long before I started conning people for a living, my mom, even knowing me for the hell raiser I am, fell for it every time._

_I knew lots of guys who went whole hog when running a con, changed their looks, up or down graded the quality of their clothes, added an accent or what have you, but not me. When I ran a con I'd spin the tale, take 'em for whatever they were worth or whatever I wanted from them, but I always looked 'em in the eye, no disguises, no pretenses, no fancy trappings to sell the con, just that false honesty thinly layered over the less savory filling within. Trouble is, after a while you start to believe the fake, that the thin veil of deceit is all you are and all you will ever be, even with others smacking you upside the head with the truth._

_And when you do finally figure it out for yourself, start to get a handle on who you really are, it makes you kinda reluctant to slip back behind the curtain for fear you'll never find your way back._

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The double wooden doors were standing wide open, but both Darien and Hobbes still stopped before passing through the doorway out of habit and Darien rapped his knuckles on the doorframe. "Fawkes and Hobbes reporting as ordered." They'd been killing time since delivering several boxes of Chinese take-out to Alex just after 2:00 PM. No one seemed to have anything for them to do, and Alex made her calls and glared every time they interrupted.

They'd tried hanging out in the Keep with Claire for a while, but were thrown out when an impromptu contest, involving balled up sheets of paper headed for the shredder and the garbage can, caused several pieces to land in the piranha tank. Neither man was interested in losing a finger to retrieve them, but Claire took exception to the presence of foreign objects near her precious carnivorous fish. The threats and invectives that had followed their hasty exit from the basement lab were not ones they thought a lady of Claire's station would know, much less use correctly in a sentence.

They had eventually ended up wandering out of the building and down the length of Broadway and over to G Street until hunger and general boredom led them into a small coffee shop to partake of a late afternoon snack. Hobbes wasn't very hungry with lunch having been so late, and Darien was just beginning to feel the first gnawings of hunger himself as lunch had sat like a cold lump in his stomach for some odd reason. The fancy muffin and coffee had helped immensely and just spending time with Bobby, arguing over some inanities in the newspaper they'd found lying about, had actually left him feeling quite relaxed. Doing something so completely mundane with his best friend on a day that was, most likely, going to be anything but was one of the few things that kept him going, had brought him back to the Agency. Higher pay and better "digs downtown" weren't worth a lot when you couldn't enjoy them with friends. It was the call from Alex that drew them back to the Agency.

"Oh, good. You're here," Claire said from somewhere in the expansive office. "Alex should be back any moment."

The two men entered the semi-sacred domain with trepidation. Normally they were not allowed in here without Alex's express permission, preferably supervised, and only when absolutely necessary. Of course, if Darien hadn't tried picking the lock on the door that one time, with Hobbes egging him on just so he could use her black leather couch for a nap, she might not be quite so unwilling to allow them use of the office when she was out of town on assignment.

"Hey, Claire." Darien entered with a slight duck of his head and looked about to make sure Alex was indeed not present.

"So she bellows for us to get back here, pronto, and she's out gallivanting around?" Hobbes sank into one of the leather chairs, enjoying the feel of the overstuffed, buttery-soft material. "Where does she get off..."

Darien cleared his throat and motioned with his head at the doorway where Alex currently stood with a garment bag draped over one arm. He was leaning over Claire's shoulder, who was sitting at Alex's computer and busily typing away on some project that they appeared to be working on together, but was unable to fathom what any of information on the screen meant. Perhaps it involved those Chrysalis kids, which wouldn't surprise Darien in the least as Alex's determination to find not only her son, but to reunite all the others that had been stolen over the years to their birth parents, had never waned.

"Monroe, we was just talking about you," Hobbes said smoothly as he turned to face her.

"So I heard," she muttered as she crossed the room and draped the garment bag carefully over the back of a chair. "Claire, thanks for the assist. Tobias got the job done in record time."

"You're quite welcome." Claire swiveled the seat, causing Darien to shift to the side as he was still leaning on the back of it, to look at Alex. "He is far more skilled than I am at alterations, especially ones that need to be precisely done. Was he able to make that addition you wanted?"

Alex walked across the room to small bar she had set up and bent down to retrieve an item from the cabinet behind it. "Yes, though it cost me a bundle." Her voice was muffled, but clear enough for those about the room to understand.

Out of curiosity Darien walked over to the bar, sat in one of the stools and leaned over to watch as she dragged out what looked liked an oddly shaped toolbox. "Whatcha got there?"

Alex stood and shooed him back so she could set the case on the bar in front of him. "Everything we need for the part you'll be playing, Fawkes."

Opening the case revealed tubes and plastic jars and brushes and many more unidentifiable pieces and bits that Darien was afraid to even guess at. Picking up an item at random he read the label, which had 'Base Cauc. Med. Tan.' typed across it. Before Darien could ask what that meant the sound of a zipper from elsewhere drew his attention and he rotated in the seat to see Bobby and Claire removing what appeared to be a uniform from the opaque garment bag.

"Oh, nice one, Monroe," Hobbes complimented with a low whistle. "You sure it'll fit Stretch over there?"

"Bobby, I gave Alex the correct measurements, I can assure you of that," Claire interjected with a small enigmatic smile. She ran her hands over the jacket to make sure the alterations were invisible to the naked eye. "An excellent job as always. Tobias is worth his weight in gold."

"If this is an example of his standard work then I have to agree with you. I can think of a half dozen occasions in the last year alone where I could have used his expertise." Alex moved back around the bar, took the uniform from Hobbes and carried over to where Darien still sat leaning one elbow lazily on the bar. "And this being a rush job... the work is nearly flawless."

"So what's with the fancy suit?" Darien asked, fearing what the answer was going to be.

"Your eveningwear, Fawkes." Alex held it out for his examination only to encounter his stubborn streak.

"Nuh, uh. I recognize that uniform. It's just like the ones worn by the soldier-types at the Embassy." This was not the plan; at least it wasn't part of any plan he knew anything about. "Ain't no one gonna believe I'm Chinese."

Alex sighed and draped the uniform over the bar. "That's what the uniform and the make-up are for. It's called a disguise, Fawkes, and they're pretty common in this line of work."

"She's got a point, partner. You wandering out looking like a janitor earlier was dumb luck and you know it." Hobbes stated, knowing exactly how close the escape had been earlier. "And from what I recall Monroe's not half bad at the disguise schtick."

Alex snorted delicately. "'Not half bad' my ass," she muttered under her breath. She was not about to get into a pissing contest over their varied forays into undercover work right now.

"Come on. Me. Pretending to be Chinese military? There has got to be another option." Darien's eyes flitted from one person to another, and even Claire had the 'you're just being stubborn' look on her face. "It won't work, I'm telling ya."

"Fawkes, I can guarantee that I know a hell of a lot more about this than you ever will," Alex snapped, getting exasperated, not understanding why he was being so thickheaded this time. "Would you just trust me on this?"

Darien's eyes narrowed on those words and he met her blue ones squarely with his own. "Trust works both ways, there, Miz Monroe." He caught the eyebrow raise and twitch to Claire's lip, but ignored it. He knew damn well where he'd first heard those words here at the Agency. Thankfully he'd come a long way since then.

"Fawkes... Darien, I do trust you. Just not equally in all things." Alex shrugged slightly. "It's the best I can do for right now."

Darien sat there thoughtfully for a moment, reviewing what he knew of her in his mind, what he'd learned about her in the last year and a half. "Fair enough." He was surprised to see her relax her shoulders a bit at his words, almost as if his answer actually meant something to her. "So what's the plan?"

"First, let's move you," She waved him off the stool and directed him towards the leather chairs that stood before her desk. "I don't want spend the next hour reaching up to work on you." She followed after him with the make-up case and set it down on the spot Hobbes quickly cleared on her desk.

"Gonna have to tame that mane of his for this. Maybe even darken it some," Hobbes commented, as he looked his partner over once he'd settled into the chair.

"At least he's still fairly tan, we won't have to darken his skin tone," Claire added as she turned on the desk light and tipped it so the light fell directly on Darien.

"Why am I starting to feel like this is an interrogation, the old fashioned way?" Darien muttered and squirmed a bit under the scrutiny of his three co-workers. "Gonna bring out the thumb-screws next?"

Hobbes chuckled. "You'll be wishing we had by the time we're done with you."

"Oh great." Darien looked up with pleading eyes. "Can the condemned at least be told why he's about to undergo torture?"

"Care to guess who has decided to make an impromptu visit to the Chinese Embassy?" Alex asked as she picked up and discarded several tubes and jars before finding the one she wanted.

"Lao Ming and his Eberts clone, Wang. Supposedly a simple visit, but actually on Ministry of State Security business," Hobbes replied in a bland tone and was rewarded with the momentary look of surprise crossing Alex's features.

"I'm impressed. Did your source also give you the details?" Alex removed several brushes and a\ few jars of various shades, then dug lower for some basic prosthetics that she would use to adjust Darien's features minutely.

"That's easy. They came for the data and Mei... Dr. Chong," Darien told her. "Though I gotta admit I'm not sure why they came personally."

"Their secure data uplink is currently down," Claire said, startling them all. "I spoke to Albert earlier and he mentioned it. He suggested they might decide to move the data via hardcopy instead of waiting for the repairs to be completed."

"Good one, Keepy." Hobbes shifted the other chair and sat down where he could view the proceedings. "And they brought along the usual entourage, which'll make it easier to slip Fawkes in."

"Entourage? Oh, bodyguards and the like. But will they be in uniform? Last time it was the old suit and tie routine." Darien tried to ignore the fact Alex was holding up sections of what appeared to be skin against his cheek.

"Hold still, Fawkes. You don't want to have to go through this twice." A brush and some strong scented goo had appeared as well. "I wish we had more time, I'd have you fitted with contacts."

"Contacts? I..." Darien was cut-off mid-complaint as Alex placed a hand under his chin and shut his mouth. "Mmmm mmm mmmm mmm," he finished.

"Shouldn't be a problem, you have him ranked for intelligence so the slight western look would be expected," Hobbes said by way of explanation for his partner.

Alex carefully glued the small prosthetics in place near Darien's eyes, altering the shape slightly. Once the make-up had been applied they'd be virtually unnoticeable. "Don't move," she warned him, and he gave her the slightest of nods in acknowledgement. She carefully smoothed down one edge and began to mentally tick off the seconds until it should be set. "And it will also account for his height. Most of the squad members stationed at the Embassy are above average in height. Better for us." She eyed her work critically and judged it was well done as ever. "All right, Fawkes, if you can behave you can talk while I work on this next bit."

What Darien wanted to do was reach up and feel what she'd done to him, but figured she would give his knuckles a rap for doing so, and that was a trip down memory lane he didn't want to deal with. It was good bet Alex hit a lot harder than Sister Anne-Marie did back in parochial school, with or without the wooden ruler. "Do we really have to do this?" he all but whined in a piteous voice.

"Well, you could always go in while invisible," Claire suggested in an astonishingly sarcastic tone.

"Which would do nothing more than get you caught," Alex added.

"And then you'd get to experience that... what was that huge honking needle thing called again, Keep?" Hobbes asked in false curiosity.

"A catheter," Darien responded, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Yeah, that. And then, after saving your scrawny ass, we'd still have to go back in and rescue the good doctor." Hobbes gave his partner the evil eye. "This'll work, Fawkes. Haven't I spent the last several months drilling you in all things spook?"

"Yeah, but..."

"And did you not pass your Agent's Exam with flying colors?"

"Yeah, but..."

"And did you not also, behind my back, get my name cleared from that mess at the FBI?"

"Yeah, but..."

Alex took a try then. "Fawkes, I know you can do this," His eyes met hers with more than a little suspicion in their brown depths. "For this I trust you to do everything humanly possible to get Dr. Chong free. And you damn well know I don't admit that lightly."

Darien still wasn't too sure. Alex was good, damn good, and could run circles around the rest of them if she wanted to. Not wanting to let her, or Hobbes for that matter, know of his continued uncertainty, he simply nodded.

Alex got back to work, carefully combining colors on a jury-rigged palette until she was satisfied with the results. Taking a fine brush she began hiding the first set of prosthetics. She paused, observing how the color actually looked over Darien's natural skin tone.

"A touch more yellow, there. He needs to look more jaundiced," Hobbes suggested and Claire nodded in agreement.

"Hobbes," Darien pleaded, not really wanting to hear his partner adding his two cents about the make-up he was going to be wearing.

Hobbes chuckled and patted Darien on the forearm. "Just wait, Fawkes. Just wait."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Alex had been wrong when she said it was going to take an hour; it took closer to two. That was at least partially Darien's own fault because he had foolishly scratched an itch without thinking and pulled up the edge of one of the prosthetics, forcing Alex to begin all over on that side. He had pretty much decided that if this was anything like what women put themselves through to get ready for a date then they were completely nuts.

Darien had very nearly balked when a comb and a variety of dubious looking bottles, tubes, and cans had appeared from the depths of the box. It took several long minutes before Hobbes andClaire had talked Darien into allowing Alex to make a few minor modifications to his hair, but only after she swore that the effects would be temporary and would do no harm to his precious locks -- though it could have been the fiery look in Alex's eyes that ultimately convinced him. It was a look that clearly said she would hold him down and do this no matter how he protested, so he'd be far better off giving in than trying to match her in a battle of wills.

With a disconcerted internal squirming Darien endured a final inspection by all three before the piece de resistance was pulled from the case. At first Darien thought it was some odd furry insect until he recognized it for a thin mustache; much like the one he'd often sported in his early days at the Agency. Removing a small jar and opening it, Alex frowned and then cursed softly.

"Prob?" Hobbes asked.

"The glue is dead. Must not have sealed it correctly after the last use," she paused for a moment, lost in thought, "three years ago."

"Three years?" Darien asked out of honest curiosity. He wasn't even sure where she'd been working the day before she had the Agency switched to Health and Human Resources, much less three years ago.

"It's not often I have need of facial hair, Fawkes," she pointed out. "False eyelashes, hair extensions, the occasional birthmark, yeah, but I haven't put on a mustache and beard in almost a decade." She caught Darien's look and cut him off before he asked. "Let's just say it involved a brothel and leave it at that. Okay?"

Darien somehow managed to not even crack a smile. "Sure. Do we really need that?" He gestured at the fake fuzz that was doing a pretty good imitation of a dead caterpillar at the moment.

"Yeah, Fawkes. For what you're pretending to be, it's almost necessary," Hobbes said with a nod then turned to Alex. "I got something that should work so's we don't have to resort to the heavier glue."

"Good. He does not want that stuff near his mouth if we can avoid it." Alex turned over the mustache to Hobbes and began to clean up the rest of the items.

"Fawkes, meet me in the men's room in five," Hobbes ordered as he left the office with a quick stride.

"Am I safe, or will it all fall apart if I blink too hard?" Darien asked, looking from one woman to the other.

"It should be fine, Darien." Claire's lips quirked into a hint of a smile that Darien decided he didn't want an explanation of.

"Just don't scratch," Alex reminded him with some force to her words. "And avoid water, no getting caught in sprinklers or the like."

"Oh, and you probably don't want to Quicksilver unless absolutely necessary." The consternation in Claire's voice made both agents turn and look at her.

"Keep, I kinda hafta, to get onto the property," Darien explained in a dry tone. "What's the problem?"

"I'm unsure how the Quicksilver will react to the prosthetics or the bonding material. It might cause them to fall off since they are blocking the pores." Claire walked around the desk and sank into Alex's leather chair with a slight frown.

"Crap," Alex muttered. "We might as well find out sooner than later." She waved a hand at Darien. "Give it a try."

With a bit of trepidation Darien allowed the Quicksilver to flow across the areas Alex had been playing with for the last couple of hours.

"Fawkes, that is just too weird," Alex commented as she watched Darien who sat on the chair before her sans his head.

"Works great at Halloween. The old headless horseman routine." He saw Claire frown. "Come on, Keepy, I'm the invisible man every other day, being Ichabod Crane's nemesis once a year is a nice change of pace." That earned him a small chuckle and a headshake from her. And he was quite sure she knew he was joking.

"All right, Claude, show yourself and lets see what damage there is." Alex closed the case and moved to stand before him, trying not to cringe at what she feared might lay beneath the layer of Quicksilver.

As if on cue the Quicksilver hardened and flaked away revealing that, by some miracle, no obvious damage had been done. Moving right up to him and leaning down she examined her work closely for any signs of loosening. After a few minutes she straightened with a nod of satisfaction. "Looks good."

Darien sighed in relief and got to his feet. "Great. I'm off..."

"Take this with you. You might as well change now." Alex handed him the closed garment bag, which he took with some reluctance. "Hobbes'll know the proper way for it to be worn."

Darien strolled down the hall, one hand buried in his back pocket and the other holding the garment bag over his shoulder when he saw Eberts thumbing through a pile of files apparently headed towards the very office Darien had just left. "Heya, Ebes. What's shaking, my man?"

"I am taking the additional data Agent Monroe requested to her off..." Eberts lifted his head and got a good look at whom he thought was Darien and stopped dead, going slightly pale in the process.

"Whoa there, you okay?" Darien went to his side as Eberts suddenly swayed on his feet.

The voice, the mannerisms, not to mention the decidedly flea market style clothes were enough to convince Eberts that no matter how much the man before him failed to look like Darien Fawkes, that it was indeed that man. "Just surprised. Agent Monroe is more skilled than I thought."

"You freaked cause of what she did? Oh man, I better not look like that Mimi chick from the  _Drew Carey Show_  or I'll..." The look of pure astonishment on Eberts' face was worthy of a Kodak moment. "What?"

"Nothing, Darien." Eberts' momentary discomfort had passed, and the realization that Darien did not yet know what his appearance looked like gave him an odd and probably totally inappropriate sense of amused pleasure. "If you'll excuse me."

"Oh, sure." Darien stepped back and let Eberts continue on his way. After a moment he headed straight to the men's room only to find it lacking his partner. He hung the garment bag on one of the doors and turned about to get a look at himself and jumped back a step, colliding with the door in his surprise. He whipped his head about looking for the stranger he'd seen in the mirror for several breathless seconds until he realized that the figure in his peripheral vision was copying his every movement. Facing the image, he raised his right hand and turned it about to expose his wrist and saw the bright green snake magically appear in the mirror before him. Striding forward he leaned on the counter and began lightly running his fingers over the stranger's face reflected back at him. The disbelief in the brown eyes he could see was all his.

His hair had been darkened to near black and lay flat, neatly parted just to the left of center. That one uncontrollable lock fell across his forehead in a half-curl as it typically did on the few occasions he allowed his hair to remain down, which he hadn't done with any regularity in years. The look was just too boyish on him and had been a definite hazard to his continued well being while doing some of his earlier stints in prison.

But it was his face that had been changed the most, the color slightly darker, with just a hint of yellow to the tone. His strong boned features had been softened. His cheeks built up and rounded, his nose wider and flatter than he was used to. His jawline and chin had also been filled out somewhat, and the bone over the eye socket somehow thickened giving him an almost sleepy gaze. He could now understand Alex's comment about contacts, against his new features even his deep brown eyes were a shade or so too light and looked just a touch off.

"Holy crap."

"You said a mouthful, there, my friend. She did one hell of a job," Hobbes agreed as he entered the room and moved to Darien's side holding a small jar and the mustache Alex had given him.

"I... That is not me," Darien stated, waving a hand at the image reflected back at them.

"You're right about that, Fawkes, and by the time I've beat a few things into your head the transformation will be complete, Shangxiao Tanrui Fang," Hobbes intoned the last with a slight grin.

"Huh?" Darien looked more than a bit dubiously at the bit of fake fuzz in Hobbes' possession.

"Your Chinese name. Colonel Darien Fawkes, " Hobbes translated. "Now, give me that lip without givin' me any lip."

"Should I salute too?" Darien sounded snippy, but was grinning as he spoke. He turned about and leaned back against the counter, slouching down so Hobbes wouldn't have to stretch in order to get this done correctly the first time.

"Smartass," Hobbes complained good-naturedly.

"You know it. Now, let's get this show on the road."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The ugly tan van sat in deep shadows under the only unlit streetlight, which had conveniently been broken by Darien with one well-placed ball bearing sent flying with a slingshot, on the quiet back road behind the Chinese Embassy. The few people in the area wouldn't look twice at it due to the crappy condition and the "Acme Locksmith" banner stuck to its side. This area was still mostly undeveloped, but the van had parked near one of the few office buildings in the area and it could easily be assumed they had been called out to jimmy open a file cabinet or replace a lock due to a set of keys being lost. It wouldn't be the first time such an event had occurred and certainly would not be the last.

"So, you sure about the security this time?" Hobbes asked in a snide tone as Alex tapped a few keys on the computer before them.

"As much as I can be," she responded, slightly distracted as she continued to get set up. "I went and had a little talk with my source. He claims he had no knowledge of the upgrade."

"So they did it all in house. Probably brought the equipment in the last time they rotated the guard. Smart of them and definitely caught us with our pants down." Hobbes reached over and tapped a few keys and the image finally steadied. "Fawkes, where you at?"

"Good fricking question," Darien muttered in Hobbes' ear. "Some ornamental garden. All very Zen, but a pain in the ass avoiding the sand." There was the sound of a surprised intake of breath. "They have guard dogs this time," was the nearly inaudible comment.

"Fawkes, you're invisible. I doubt the mutts can see any more of you than the rest of us," Alex reminded him.

"You wanna bet my life on that, Monroe?" Darien snapped at a harsh whisper. "Sure as hell looks like they know I'm here."

"Just calm down Fawkes and dodge around them the best you can," Hobbes told his plainly frightened partner, then covered his mic and turned to Alex. "Do we know dogs can't see him or smell him?"

"Hobbes, I am so not the one to answer that question. Ask the Keep the next time you're down in her lab," Alex suggested with a small quirk to her lips. It hadn't taken her long to figure out that Bobby Hobbes had a thing for the blonde Keeper and only had her suspicions confirmed when the two of them were faced with a bomb about to go off in front of them. Hobbes' confession of "I love you, Claire" had been a source of much amusement, but she had not exploited the knowledge in any way. At least, not after that one attempt to get Hobbes to admit how he felt about Claire; they would just have to figure it out for themselves.

"Fawkes, just keep cool. This can't be the first time you've had to dodge some pups to get to the goal." Hobbes hoped the comment would ease his friend's worry.

"Hobbes, I used to scale buildings. Ain't many guard dogs fitted with climbing harnesses," Darien grumbled in an irritated undertone.

Alex glanced over at Hobbes. "Can't really argue with that, now can you?"

Hobbes debated doing exactly that, but chose not to at that moment. They could always have a knock-down, drag-out fight later, when they were off the clock and not trying to keep Fawkes' ass in one piece. "You in yet?"

"Gimme five; they have guards all over the place tonight." Darien sounded calmer now, like he'd regained his momentarily lost confidence.

"Not surprised with Ming visiting. Probably upped the physical security and reduced the electronic. Don't want it to look like they can't handle the situation." Alex tapped a few keys and zoomed in on the area where Darien was supposed to be making his entry.

"All that means is that if they suspect something's going down they won't sound the alarm and will try to handle it real quiet-like." Hobbes' tone was so flat that Alex reflexively shot him a confused look.

"Uh guys, comments like that are not doing much for my confidence here," Darien informed them at a low hiss.

Hobbes contained a chuckle, knowing his partner was more than capable of handling this even if things suddenly dove into the realm of complete fubar. "Good. Keep you on your toes that way."

"That's me, ole Twinkle-toes." There was a distinctive pause. "Here goes nothin'."

Everything was suddenly a lot crisper, the Quicksilver having the deleterious effect of muffling sound waves other than those from Darien himself since the mic was within the layer of Quicksilver. A few seconds later they could hear a door being quietly opened and then shut and then the heels of the boots clicking on the solid floor as Darien walked down the hallway of the service entrance he'd used to make his way unnoticed into the building.

"Fawkes, you want to follow the corridor for about a hundred feet," Alex told him even though they had gone over the floor plans and made Darien memorize the route earlier. "Then take a right that leads past the kitchen."

"Preaching to the choir, there, missy," Darien hissed.

They could hear voices and other ambient noises, but none seemed to be directed at Darien as he made his way through the back hallways of the Embassy and to the staircase he'd visited this morning. He kept up a running commentary -- just a word here and there -- letting them know where he was and how things seemed to be going from his perspective.

 

Darien marched down the staircase giving the place the once over as he did so; there was a single guard against the far wall who did nothing more than salute after he'd raked his gaze across Darien, the guard's eyes widening slightly in apparent recognition of the insignia. Darien turned crisply and headed for the room they hoped Mei-Lin was still being kept in. That was one of the potential glitches with this plan; that Mei-Lin had been moved, forcing him to go searching for her in the far more populated areas of the Embassy.

Peeking into the window, much as he had this morning, he saw her lying on the bed off to the left of the door, partially propped up with pillows, several books lying open on the bed around her and writing in a notebook that rested against her thighs.

Reaching into the interior pocket of the jacket, he withdrew the one piece that had taken both

Monroe and Eberts to secure, and even then neither would guarantee its efficacy. If this failed he'd have to try this the hard way and he'd only been able to smuggle in the most primitive and simple of his thieving tools. He swiped the mag-key through the slot and keyed the three-character code and breathed a silent sigh of relief when the light turned green and there was a quite beep from the locking mechanism.

Entering the room, Darien shut the door behind him with an equally soft click and twitched slightly in surprise when a voice spoke behind him.

"Aren't you a little tall to be in the Chinese Military?"

He spun about to see Mei-Lin on her side leaning up on one elbow, eyeing him warily.

"Huh? Oh this." He tipped back the hat and ripped the annoying mustache off his face; he'd been trying not to scratch at it for the last 30 minutes or so. He just barely managed not to yelp at the pain as the first layer of skin was torn away. He'd have to thank Hobbes later for the toupee glue and ask why he had it stashed in his office... In front of Claire and Alex. "It's me. Darien Fawkes. I'm here to rescue you."

Mei-Lin threw off the covers and hurriedly got off the bed and moved towards him. "You're here to rescue me?"

"Yeah," Then he grinned and continued with a bastardized version of the traditional response. "I'm here with Ben Kenobi and I have your droids."

"Droids? Ben Kenobi?" Mei-Lin asked him in confusion.

"Okay," Darien muttered, his amusement fading as he realized she had no idea what he was talking about. "Not a Star Wars fan."

 

Having heard this over the headset, Hobbes added his two cents, "All right, Luke, how about getting you and the Princess there back to the Millennium Falcon before they turn those tractor beams back on."

Alex gave Hobbes questioning look and he covered his mic to answer her. "Star Wars, Skywalker's choice for a movie-a-thon last weekend."

Alex rolled her eyes to cover the sudden urge to laugh. If nothing else they kept things amusing. "I know where it's from, Hobbes. I'll have you know I camped out for two days to see the premiere of Empire."

"Really? Lemme guess, first in line?" Hobbes asked, but Alex's response was interrupted by Fawkes' voice over the headset.

"Yo, Yoda, how about using those Jedi skills and telling us where that promised back route out of here is?" Darien's tone was failing to hide some very real concern.

Both Alex and Hobbes rolled their eyes. "Yeah, yeah, keep your lightsaber on."

"The force says to cross the hall to the door at the very end. Once inside there should a door to your right," Alex supplied as she looked over the images on the computer screen.

 

"Right-o ... uh," Darien suddenly realized he wasn't sure which Star Wars character would suit her without insulting her. Vader and the Emperor were out, as she was a good guy, C3PO just wasn't right, and Chewbacca would get him seriously hurt. So he went with the only available choice left to him, "Han old buddy," and cringed waiting for the response.

"Wise choice, there, young apprentice," Alex commented dryly, and Darien breathed a sigh of relief as he followed her directions.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Three

 

_A poet by the name of Thoreau, in his usual perfectly phrased verse, said, "Our truest life is when we are in our dreams awake." He could've mentioned he meant nightmares, too._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Mei-Lin had followed him willingly enough once he'd convinced her that he was indeed who he claimed to be by showing her the tattoo on his wrist. She'd simply grabbed several notebooks, which she shoved into a small bag and slung over her shoulder; making it obvious she was not going to leave them behind.

Making their way out of her room he led them down the hall and away from the easily seen stairwell that lay in the other direction and where, he knew, the guard who would ask questions Darien could not answer, waited. Moving to the farthest right hand door he noted the electronic lock, which appeared to match the one to Mei-Lin's room, with one baleful red light staring at him.

"Monroe, will the key and code work in all the locks?"

"It should, provided they are the same type," Alex answered crisply. "Different lock and you're on your own."

"Gotcha." He pulled the mag-key out, slid it through the provided slot, and then pressed the code. It seemed to think about what he had done, and he was on the verge of offering up a prayer to that god he'd stopped believing in years ago when the red light darkened and its mate turned green.

"Fawkes?" Mei-Lin queried at his sigh of relief. He shook his head, not refusing to answer, but to put it off until they were in a slightly more secure area. The door opened onto, not the expected room, but a short hallway with yet another door and another of those locks. This time he didn't even bother with his partners in the van and simply went through the motions and had the door open seconds later.

As they followed the revealed staircase down, Mei-Lin spoke up again, "Fawkes, where are we going?" She kept her voice soft and was looking warily about as the flight of stairs led them down to a subbasement that was plainly the underbelly of the beast above. Wires and pipes and all the pieces and parts that kept a building of this type running smoothly lay above, aside, and on the walls. There were piles of boxes, file cabinets, and old furniture; some were carefully protected, others covered in layers of dust. Crates with stenciled markings in Chinese pictograms, trunks, statuary, paintings, everything but the proverbial kitchen sink, it was stored down here to either rot away or to await renewed use someday in the many rooms above.

"Back way out. Used by electricians and plumbers when they're called in. Keeps them out of the main building." That had been Hobbes contribution to this plan. The people he knew might not be the same highbrow class that Alex used, but that didn't make the information any less valuable. "Exit is behind the secondary buildings out back."

Mei-Lin stopped dead and it took a few seconds for Darien to realize she was no longer beside him. Turning about he mentally groaned at the look of stubbornness on her features. "What?"

"We have to destroy the data," she told him, gazing about and looking like she was about ready to bolt.

"Eberts will handle that. He's already hacked the system and just needs to crack the encryption..." He trailed off as she vehemently shook her head.

"If he hasn't by now, then he won't. Not in time anyway. They were just setting up the equipment when they stuck me back in my room. They'll be finished soon and will transfer the data, leaving your 'Eberts' nothing to find." The earnestness in her voice convinced Darien.

"Crap," he muttered and then, "Hobbes, we got a problem."

"Like that's a big surprise. We heard her. Your job is to get the Doc outta there. Let the Fat Man and Eberts worry about the rest," Hobbes told him, followed by the muffled sounds of arguing as Hobbes and Alex got into it yet again.

"Fawkes... Bring Dr. Chong out, and we'll go from there. She is first priority. That is from the Official himself." Her tone was hard and her information news to Darien and he'd be willing to bet it was news to Hobbes as well. Darien was almost certain that was the sound of grinding teeth echoing hollowly in his ear. Once again Alex and the Official had successfully kept the two agents out of the need-to-know loop.

"They want you out of here now. We'll come back and deal with the data after," Darien summed up the conversation that was going on in his head.

"Won't work. I can get in and wipe the data permanently. I have the codes. Who do you think was going to be handling the data transfer?" Mei-Lin was adamant.

"All right." Ignoring the shouts from the earpiece he yanked it out and shoved it the pocket where they could happily yell at the mag-key for the next several minutes. "Come on." He led them back the way they had come, not quite sure how he was going to get the two of them past the guards as he only knew about five words in Chinese, and Hobbes had not been entirely satisfied with his pronunciation of them. Though where Hobbes had learned Chinese Darien had no idea and wasn't quite sure he wanted to know.

Mei-Lin stopped them just before they passed through the final door and back into the hallway, right back where they had started, once he had explained his concern about the guard at the foot of the staircase. "Why don't you just Quicksilver us?"

"Can't. The security cameras are rigged for thermal imaging and will spot us in no time flat." He waved a hand at himself. "You think I'm dressed like this for the thrill of it?"

She shook her head. "No, but since you have only a limited amount of Quicksilver use before the programmed side effect kicks in I assumed it was to keep the invisibility in reserve."

It dawned on Darien then that she, and most likely everyone else in the building, thought exactly the same. That he was still restricted with use of the Quicksilver, dependant upon the counteragent for control of the side effect, and he was not about to change their views on the matter. It could be just the ace-in-the-hole he might need one day. "Doing both of us would give me about... 10 minutes before things turned ugly, is that enough time?"

"No," she admitted. "So what do we do?"

Darien shrugged. "Same thing I always do: Make it up as I go along." Darien realized then, that he'd been watching far too many movies with Harrison Ford in them as of late.

Opening the door, they checked to see if the hall was clear, both leaning out, Darien's head just above Mei-Lin's. Their heads turned in opposite directions as they surveyed the area, then Mei-Lin looked up at Darien at the same time he looked down at her. With a slight nod they stepped into the hallway and shut the door with a soft click. Coming up with the only plan he could think of he grasped Mei-Lin by the upper arm, the hold appearing far tighter than it really was, and marched her towards the staircase.

Mei-Lin appeared to have caught on to what he was doing at least enough that she just went along instead of questioning and fighting him. The guard went on alert when he saw the couple, hand going to his sidearm, and his stance instantly switching to a defensive posture.

"Ming wishes to speak with her before the data transfer," Darien told him, affecting the lightly accented voice Hobbes had drilled him in for over an hour earlier.

Much to Darien's surprise the man backed down, acknowledging his words with a curt response in Chinese that Darien had no hope of understanding. Mei-Lin huffed and glared, but didn't struggle or complain verbally. Urging her forward, they mounted the stairs and turned to the right, much as Darien had earlier in the day, ducking down a side hall to figure out what to do next. Darien kept a wary eye out for the security cameras, doing his best to make sure they saw only him and not Mei-Lin.

"We need a back way to wherever they have the data. Can you do that?"

"For the most part. I have only visited the Embassy a few times so my knowledge of the building is limited," she explained at a whisper. "This way." She moved off at a brisk walk, and Darien actually had to stretch his legs to catch up.

"You okay? They didn't hurt you or nothing?" Darien asked softly as they made their way through the maze of corridors that made up the interior of the building.

"Not really. Though my stay here has not exactly been comfortable," she answered as she flattened herself against a wall. Several men, in what looked like waiters' uniforms, walked by in the cross-corridor carrying trays of food. The scent drifted to Darien and caused his stomach to growl in response. Mei-Lin's attention drifted to the source of the offending sound and then up to meet Darien's eyes; she tried and failed to hide a smile, which caused Darien to duck his head in momentary embarrassment. The miniscule dinner Alex had allowed him to eat had done no more than ease the hunger pangs temporarily.

Verifying the route was clear, Mei-Lin led them the same direction as the waiters had gone, but turned off at the second corridor and to a double door watched by two cameras and with an electronic lock that he knew by sight he would not be able to open. "You can open that?"

"Not this one. Different model." He wanted to rub the back of his neck, but refrained as the disguise he was wearing might yet be of use.

Lady Luck chose at that moment to get involved in the situation, to their benefit, as the doors suddenly swung open and a man dressed in a lab coat and frowning intently at the papers in his hand pushed right between them, without ever seeming to notice their existence.

Darien grabbed one of the doors before they closed and they slipped inside. This hallway was brightly lit and far more institutional-looking that the other sections of the Embassy that he'd seen, the exception being that room where'd he'd been strapped to a table and... He shook his head to chase away the aural memory of a sound very much like a dentist's drill. Now was not the time to be remembering that less than fun experience.

Mei-Lin strode forward with confidence, seemingly unconcerned they could be discovered at any moment. "Most everyone is scheduled to be presented to Ming. This area should be empty for the most part."

Darien grunted in acknowledgment, but didn't relax the least little bit. All it would take is one guy in the security room to notice that Mei-Lin was not in her room and wandering about in restricted areas of the building for the alarm to be sounded and their asses to be mulch.

She stopped before a plain door with some Chinese symbol on it, which seemed oddly familiar to Darien and opened it. Inside was little more than a desk, a chair and a computer. From the looks of the place, which was only about ten feet on a side, it was a former storage closet that had been hastily converted for this new purpose.

"What's this?" Darien asked as Mei-Lin slipped into the chair and turned the computer on.

"They didn't trust me in the main computer center, so they set this up. I have full access to the system, just no contact with other people." She gave a small groan then and rubbed her abdomen.

Darien froze as that dream image forcefully intruded on his waking mind, only this time when he tried to look up at the face of the woman holding the red-eyed child he was successful, and it was Mei-Lin's face looking back at him. He snapped back to reality as the blood drained from his face. "You're pregnant?" He just barely kept his voice from making a prepubescent squeak.

"Yes. You just now noticed?" She glanced over at him and then focused back on the computer as it finally finished its start-up routine.

Darien tried to swallow with a throat gone dry as dust and nodded absently. "It's ... It's not that obvious," he finally managed once he'd worked up enough moisture to clear his throat.

She actually gave him a small smile, albeit a surprisingly wistful one. "I can't imagine you having all that much exposure to women in... in my condition."

"Ain't that the truth," Darien agreed. "Why are you here alone? Why isn't your ...."

She stopped typing and turned to face him. "He ... Chen wasn't ready for this." She rubbed one hand across her swollen belly. Even now that he knew, it was still not very obvious so Darien figured she was probably not very far along. "Can we have this discussion later?" she requested plaintively.

"Sure. The sooner we get you out of here the better," Darien replied in consternation at momentarily forgetting they were in enemy territory. Mei-Lin turned back to the computer, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she worked on removing the information from the Embassy system. "Question, why would they give you the access, codes, or whatever so that you could erase the data?"

"They didn't give them to me, Agent Fawkes. I saw the override access code in use and memorized it." She never even turned to look at him, but he caught the way the corner of her lip lifted in a hint of a feral smile. "I hope Kong gets sent home in disgrace over it." The vindictive tone in her voice made it plain to Darien that she was not fond of the man mentioned in any way.

An odd buzzing caused Darien to look about the room for a minute, his eyes locking on the lone camera mounted above the door, before he realized the sound was coming from his pocket. With an anticipatory cringe he brought the earpiece back into the light of day and towards his ear. He could hear the shouted voices well before he had the thing in place.

"Yo, I would like to be able to hear, ya know."

 

Hobbes snapped his mouth shut on the next bellow he'd been readying now that he actually had the attention of his idiot partner. "You had better be on your way outta there, Fawkes," Hobbes snarled into the mic.

There was a pause and the blatant sound of the mic being muffled on Darien's end of things. "Five minutes, Hobbes," was the eventual response.

"Fawkes, you didn't..." The disappointment in Hobbes voice was easily evident as he tipped his head down and scrubbed his face with his hands.

"Hobbes, the woman could kick me into next week, do you want to argue with her?" was the hissed reply.

Alex spoke up then, "Fawkes, did I hear you correct? Dr. Chong is pregnant?"

"Yeah." Darien answered, sounding a touch off.

"Damn," Hobbes muttered looking at the woman next to him, whose face had gone completely blank. "Monroe..."

"Fawkes, you get her out of there in one piece, understand me?" Alex's voice was tight, as if she wasn't quite sure how to deal with this sudden revelation. "Or I will personally see to it your lazy self-centered butt gets kicked so hard..."

"Whoa, cool down there, girl. I'll get her out, trust me on that." Hobbes and Monroe could just hear whom they assumed to be Dr. Chong speaking, but were unable to understand exactly what she said. "Hobbes, call Eberts and tell him to get out of the system here or whatever Mei-Lin is gonna do might eat his too."

"On it." Hobbes picked up his cell phone and dialed.

Alex was watching her monitor and frowned as she noticed security measures that had been off suddenly spring to life on her screen. Altering the view so that she could see a three-dimensional image of the entire building, she realized they were being turned on selectively, rolling through the building, as if in search of something. "Fawkes, you need to get the hell out of there."

"As soon as she's done," Fawkes responded brusquely.

"No, Fawkes, now. I think they've figured out that Dr. Chong is not where she belongs." Alex zoomed the image closer trying to follow the changes as they occurred.

Hobbes, who was still on the phone with Eberts, moved right in beside her and tapped the screen where yet another system suddenly sprang to life. "Eberts says he's out and has what he thinks is the data he wanted."

"Goody," Alex muttered in false enthusiasm. The eastern quarter of the model before her began to blink with red overlaying the image. "Damn it."

Hobbes slipped the phone back into his pocket. "Does that mean what I think it does?"

"If you mean did they just set off an alarm and put everyone on alert? Then, yeah, it does." Alex's words dripped sarcasm. "Fawkes, you are out of time. Get out of there."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Crap," Darien muttered. Striding over to Mei-Lin he set a hand on her shoulder. He didn't say a word, but watched as her fingers flew even faster across the keyboard and then hit enter.

"All right, it's done." She turned to face him, tucking her long black hair behind her ear on the left side, but allowing that on the right to hide her face. In an oddly touching move that caused her eyes to widen in surprise Darien brushed her hair back on the right side as well and met her eyes without a trace of pity within his. "Fawkes."

"Lets get you out of here." One hand on her back, he urged her towards the door of the room and opened it the tiniest of amounts to see what, if anything, was going on out in the hallway. He was amazed to find it still empty. Together they walked down the hall at a swift pace and through the double doors at the end of the hallway. Hearing voices from the right, they went left and stepped around the next corner just in time. To their relief, the raised voices and rushed footsteps headed down the corridor they had just left. "What's the nearest way outta here?" Darien asked sotto voce.

Mei-Lin looked uncomfortable. "The main entrance, but it will be heavily guarded."

"Yep, it probably will," Darien agreed. "Hobbes, get the Falcon out of the landing bay and move her around to the front gates." He motioned for Mei-Lin to lead the way while keeping a sharp eye and ear out for anyone coming their way. There wasn't a whole lot he could do about the security cameras, aside from hope that they moved faster than those watching in the control center noticed.

"Fawkes," Hobbes hissed in his ear. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Not for months now," Alex quipped in a surprisingly light tone. "Just do it, Hobbes. If that's where he's going, he's gonna need us there for back-up."

"And to get the gates open," Darien said softly as he and Mei-Lin crossed a wide hallway that was obviously near the more public rooms at the front of the building. It was even looking a bit familiar from his first visit here, when he had sneaked in while the Keep and the Official kept two bureaucrat-type goons busy.

"Jeeze, Fawkes, do I look like a Storm Trooper to you?" Hobbes complained even as the engine roared in the background.

"Rather have you in an X-wing than a Tie Fighter, but I'll take whatever I can get." Fawkes gave Mei-Lin a small headshake as she looked back at him in confusion. He wasn't about to take the time to explain it to her right now.

They continued through the hallways, dodging armed men as necessary, their luck miraculously holding out as they drew closer to their planned escape route. Eventually, as they both knew they would, they hit an impasse where both physical and electronic security blocked their way. They were huddled in a blind spot between three camera sweeps, but were within earshot of an easy half-dozen armed guards and two who were giving orders, one of whom Mei-Lin identified as Manke Kong.

Darien considered their very few options and, with an anticipatory shiver that was almost evenly divided between fear and excitement, drew Mei-Lin closer to explain it to her. "I'm gonna draw them off. You head for the doors and to the front gates. Hobbes'll be there. Trust him."

"Fawkes, don't you go and do something stupid," Hobbes warned.

"Hey, few do it better than me," Darien joked, drawing a snort from at least one of the occupants of the van. "You in place?"

"Yeah, Fawkes, we're ready," Alex answered. "Be careful."

"Careful has very little to do with this line of work," Darien's rejoinder went without an immediate response and his focus swung back to the petite woman next to him. "Head towards those doors." He pointed to the French doors just a few steps away from their current position.

"Darien..."

"You can thank me later." Stepping into the view of the cameras, Darien moved out into the main room, where he was spotted after only moment. Taking off at a run he let the Quicksilver flow as he aimed for the main entrance of the building with shouts following him. The first of the gunshots impacted the doorframe by his head causing him to squeak in surprise.

"Fawkes?" Hobbes shouted, nearly making Darien shout in reaction to the volume.

"I'm fine." He slammed his shoulder into the door, forcing it open, not wanting to take the time to do something so simple as turning the knob. Bursting through, he dashed towards the driveway and past several sleek black cars parked there with those little "diplomatic" flags on the front of their hoods and drawing the attention of several more guards that had been stationed outside. He caught Mei-Lin's form running across the grass at an angle that would intersect with the long driveway a good distance before the gate.

Darien altered his course to intercept her. Behind them shouts and then shots rang out, and he pushed himself harder, not wanting to risk leaving her unprotected any longer than necessary. Just as he got within a few steps of her, more gunshots rang out, and Darien grunted in pain at the same time Mei-Lin shouted and stumbled. He caught her, barely, the two of them propping each other up. Darien found himself momentarily unable to breathe as the muscles of his chest locked due to the impact. He didn't even bother to wonder why he was still standing, just grabbed Mei-Lin, the Quicksilver rushing across her, and got them staggering away.

The shouts changed, no longer in mystifying Chinese, making Darien's blood run cold.

"Cease fire, you fools! Use the tranqs! We need them alive!"

Air came rushing back into Darien's lungs. "Hobbes," he squawked, "get the gates open."

"On it," Alex answered as Hobbes glanced back at her. Sliding open the side door of the van, she leaned out and took careful aim. "Ready." The engine revved once, twice, then the van shot forward, gaining speed as it went. There was a single gunshot, then Hobbes whipped the wheel about into a tight 90-degree turn, losing minimal momentum, and smashed Golda into the gates that Alex had just blown the lock away on with a single deadly accurate shot. Hobbes slammed on the brakes once the side door had cleared the gates, which rebounded back into the rear quarters of the van and then bounced away, remaining open and leaving their escape route free.

"Fawkes, move yer ass," Hobbes muttered into the headset.

"As fast as I can, partner," Darien answered from the doorway as the Quicksilver flaked away to reveal both Mei-Lin and him.

Alex reached a hand out to the woman and helped her into the van, getting her buckled in front while Darien climbed in and slammed the door shut. "Go!" he shouted, and Hobbes didn't hesitate, backing the van out at a seemingly insane rate of speed and whipping the vehicle about until it was aimed in the direction he wanted to go. Shifting gears, he pressed down on the gas pedal, the rear tires smoking as they left a trail of rubber down the middle of the street.

"Are you two okay?" Alex asked, noting neither one of them was looking too healthy.

Almost as one they said, "I've been hit."

"Now is not the time to be joking around," Hobbes snapped from the driver's seat. He had reduced speed enough to not send everyone flying every time he made a sharp and unexpected turn, but was still doing a good clip down the streets as he headed for the interstate.

"He's not, Hobbes." Alex could see the holes along the right side of the jacket Darien still wore, but didn't see any blood. Turning to Mei-Lin she settled between the two front seats. "Where are you hit?" Alex asked at the same time she noticed that the woman was holding her upper left arm with her right hand, the blood oozing out between her fingers.

"Here," Darien said as he tossed Alex the first aid kit that Bobby kept stashed in the van for those oft happening accidents. Unbuttoning the jacket he felt along his ribs and back on his right side and while he was most definitely tender, his hand came away without even a trace of blood. "Let me guess, that addition was a bullet proof lining."

"Just in case, Fawkes," Alex responded as she tied off the bandage she'd hastily wrapped about Mei-Lin's arm. "It just winged you," Alex told Mei-Lin, who nodded mutely. "Try and stay calm, we'll get you back to the Agency safe and sound."

Alex moved to the back where Darien had moved towards the back of the van. He had one hand pressed against the roof of the van and was looking out the back window. The van was moving far more moderately now, trying to not draw attention while still making the best time possible in the scramble to get home.

Pulling open the jacket, she yanked the shirt out of his pants much to his obvious surprise. "Well, Alex, if I'd known this was what got your motor running..."

Her placing a hand over his ribs made him yelp and go pale. "I don't think they're broken, luckily, but you're gonna have one hell of a set of bruises." Returning the shirt to its proper position she was forced to brace herself with a hand on the door and Hobbes jerked the van around slower moving traffic. "And you'd be very surprised by what gets my motor running," she teased.

"Alex." Darien was staring out the rear window, tempted to respond to her obvious innuendo-laden opening, but was finding the traffic behind them much more interesting.

"Yes."

"Alex," Darien said more emphatically as he turned to face her. "Look out the fricking window." He nodded his head at the glass and the vehicles driving like maniacs about a half a mile behind them.

"Damn." Alex's hand went to her gun and drew it; she flicked off the safety and made certain she had a round chambered. "Get up front," she ordered.

Darien didn't argue. "Hobbes, we're gonna have company," he informed his partner at a near-shout. He slipped into the jump seat and glanced first at Mei-Lin who appeared to be relaxed and mostly unconcerned, except for the fact that one hand gripped the armrest on the door hard enough to turn the knuckles of her fingers white while the other traced slow circles on her abdomen. "It'll be fine," he said to her softly.

"I know, but that doesn't make his version of driving any easier to take," she replied with mixed concern and humor in her voice.

"If it keeps ya alive, its good enough," Hobbes commented in grim humor. "How far, Monroe?"

"Quarter mile and closing fast. Where the hell are we?" Alex asked.

"Interstate 5, headed towards downtown." Hobbes sped up and whipped about some of the late evening traffic. As it was not quite eleven the traffic was thin, but not nonexistent.

"Floor it and get off by Bay Bridge Park," Alex suggested.

"Hobbes, exit at 17th and try and lose 'em on the side streets. I doubt they've memorized the one ways and short cuts," Darien offered as a better alternative.

"Yeah, good idea. And I can make some speed when I hit Harbor. Turn up 5th and it's a straight shot to home." Hobbes checked the mirrors and weaved through a sudden clump of cars, ignoring the horns and single digits flung into the air as he did so. "Monroe, think you can discourage them a bit?"

"I think I can manage that." The sound of rushing air inside the van increased ten-fold as Alex opened one of the rear doors in preparation.

"Exit, coming up," Hobbes warned mere seconds before slipping down the ramp and slowing only marginally.

Behind them they heard a single gunshot as Alex said, "Gotcha."

"Alex?" Darien shouted above the ambient noise.

"Nailed the radiator on one, he took out the one behind him," Alex shouted in response.

"A twofer. Not bad," Hobbes commented as he whipped Golda onto 17th headed south.

"Did I mention the four cars behind them?" Alex failed to sound thrilled about the matter.

"Ah, no you didn't. Looks like its gonna be one hell of a party," Darien said in the driest tone he could manage.

"Monroe, hold on." The warning came just in time as they took the first right that presented itself, followed shortly thereafter by a left.

There was a curse from the rear and the sound of the door slamming shut, but nothing else.

"Hobbes, we gotta get turned around," Darien told him needlessly.

"I know that." Hobbes snarled, his concentration on losing those tailing them before making the final dash home.

Alex chimed in then, "Hobbes, they know where we're going. Get there before they have people in place to block us."

Darien was close enough to discern the swears that Hobbes was muttering like a mantra under his breath even as he spun the wheel right and floored her again, ignoring the stop signs and leaning on the horn to warn off other drivers, which were few and far between. Then it was another hard right onto Harbor Drive headed west towards downtown and home.

Traffic was fairly light, and Hobbes completely ignored and broke just about every traffic law ever written as he pushed the van to even greater speeds. The modifications that he had made over the last year contributed greatly to the improved performance of the vehicle. As the Convention Center came into view Darien breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that there wasn't that much further for them to go.

"Monroe?" Hobbes hollered.

"So far so good. Now just so long as this crate holds together..."

There was a bang and the forward speed of the van slowed dramatically. Almost as if planned all three sitting in front leaned about to glare at the woman standing by the rear door.

"What?" Alex pointed at the sight through the front window where clouds of steam could be seen billowing up into the cool evening air. "You gonna tell me that smashing through the gates had absolutely nothing to do with it?"

"Timing, Alex. Golda here is a very sensitive lady," Darien remarked, recalling the number of times Hobbes had chewed him out for his derogatory comments about his precious vehicle.

"You said it, my friend," Hobbes agreed as he tried to get the last bit of energy out of the van. Red warning lights began to flash all over the instrument panel, including the temperature gauge signaling the imminent overheating of the engine.

"Crap. I'm gonna have to pull 'er over." Hobbes turned up onto 5th and bumped across the railroad crossing and up onto the sidewalk, an attempt to keep out of the flow of traffic. The poor beast didn't need any more damage than she had already sustained. Once the engine had been turned off he urged them all out of the vehicle.

"Fawkes, what the hell is this?" Hobbes plucked the small, feathered item from the back of the jacket Darien was wearing and showed it to him.

Darien swallowed hard. "Looks like a tranq to me. Alex, remind me to thank you later."

"You know it." The sound of squealing tires drew her attention to the street they had just turned off of. There was at least one vehicle coming towards them and irritating quite a few drivers based on the blaring of horns. "Company." She pulled her gun out and checked the clip quickly. "Hobbes get 'em moving. Call for back up to meet you."

Hobbes eyed the woman and after a second nodded curtly. "C'mon kiddies, time for a quiet stroll through the Gaslamp District." Hobbes set a hand on each of their backs and urged them forward, but Darien balked.

"Alex, you don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do. A couple of flat tires will slow them down." Alex moved to stand before her far taller co-worker. "Hobbes'll protect the Doc, just as you will. I've got your backs. Trust me."

There was little way for Darien to argue with those words, especially with a very frightened and pregnant Mei-Lin needing to be as far away from there as possible. "Just be careful."

"'Careful has very little to do with this line of work.' That's a quote by the way," Alex responded with a hint of a grin. "Now go, would ya?"

Hobbes yanked on Darien's arm and got him moving. They pushed the pace, so by the time the first shot echoed back to them they were already mingling with the small crowds that strolled along the sidewalks. Darien's pace slowed a bit, as he hesitated, wanting to rush back and help Alex while Hobbes got Mei-Lin clear.

"Fawkes, she made her choice, you can't go back and change it for her," Mei-Lin said softly and Darien draped an arm over her shoulders, though for support or comfort neither really knew.

Hobbes had his phone out. "Eberts, we ran into some trouble. I need back-up scrambled and in position to meet us at Market and 5th ASAP." He paused listening. "Just do it, Eberts, or this rescue attempt will fail right on the Fat Man's doorstep." Snapping the phone shut he looked over at Darien. "Lose the jacket," he ordered in a no-nonsense tone and Darien rushed to do as he'd been told. The hat had been left somewhere in the van, victim of one of Hobbes' more creative turns.

"I can, you know, make us disappear," Darien reminded Hobbes in soft voice to prevent anyone nearby from overhearing.

Hobbes shook his head. "Not yet anyway. I'm hoping we'll just blend in the crowd."

The earpiece Darien had forgotten he was still wearing suddenly crackled to life. "Fawkes, one got through. Repeat, one vehicle got through, others are on foot," Monroe yelled over the sound of shouts and shots at her end.

Darien stopped dead on the sidewalk in front of one of the many restaurants still open, music poured from within. "Alex?" Darien just barely remembered to not shout.

"Fawkes, run damn..." Her voice was suddenly cut off.

"Crap," Darien met Hobbes' eyes. "I think they got Alex."

"Move." Hobbes hooked his arm through Mei-Lin's and got her moving as swiftly as they could. "Any other good news?"

"She said one car got through and several more on foot," Darien told him as he looked back over his shoulder reflexively, and Hobbes swatted him on the shoulder.

"Natural, Fawkes, just friends out for an evening stroll."

"Natural, he says. What's natural about being chased by..."

"Fawkes, shut up," Mei-Lin growled through clenched teeth.

Instantly, contrition and concern washed through Darien. "Sorry. How are you doing?"

"Been better," she admitted.

When they reached J Street, Hobbes had them cross to the eastern side of the street. Taking advantage of the crossing to look for their followers. Through this part of town the traffic was still fairly heavy, which should slow down those in the car.

"We need to get off this street," Hobbes commented as they continued moving uphill.

"Where the hell is the back-up?" Darien complained as he whipped his head about in a vain attempt to find their hoped for rescue.

"Eberts said there was a problem with the pool vehicles," Hobbes answered.

"Another one died in the driveway?" Hobbes nodded and Darien groaned. "The cheap bastard." Taking note of where they were Darien had an idea. "Hobbes, about a block up I know a way to cut over to Sixth, can you get them to meet us there?"

Hobbes pulled out the phone and dialed. "Where will we come out?"

"Near Krasne's Gun and Pawn," Darien answered, ignoring the raised eyebrow from Hobbes. Sudden shouts from behind them caused Hobbes to reach for his gun, but he didn't draw it, yet.

"Can you run?" Hobbes asked of Mei-Lin.

"Yes. I'm pregnant, not handicapped," she snapped, grabbed the bag she'd been carrying securely in one hand and took off at a dead run, her small size making it easy for her to eel between others on the street.

Less than a second later both men dashed after her and caught up quickly. They lucked out as they hit Island Avenue, the light turning green just as they reached the intersection and removing the necessity of slowing or dodging through moving traffic. By the time they'd made it to their current destination all three were panting, and Mei-Lin was holding her stomach in obvious discomfort.

"The Cuban Cigar Factory?" Hobbes asked in dismay. "Fawkes, you have a thing for irony, don't you?"

"Tell me something I don't know, my friend," Darien muttered as he went to work on the lock of the gate to the small alleyway between the buildings. He had it open in seconds and waved the other two through first. With some creativity, and the fact he'd done this a few times before, he rigged the gate to lock when he shut it behind them. The distinctive click was music to his ears. "This way." He led them through the maze of three-foot wide passageways that snaked oddly between the buildings on 5th and 6th streets.

It was the sound of a gunshot behind them, most likely shooting the lock on the gate, which changed his tactics slightly. Setting a hand on each of their shoulders he let the Quicksilver flow across all three of them. If the guys after them had thermals, this would do little to help, but he was betting on them being in such a hurry that they hadn't bothered with them. It took another five minutes of seemingly aimless wandering in the dark alleyways before they came to their destination.

Darien took one look at the unexpected steel gate in front of them and let fly with a rather impressive invective.

"Fawkes?"

"New gate," Darien replied as he dug through the pockets of his jacket blindly for anything that might be of use.

"Frost the hinges, Chilly Willy," Hobbes told him, setting his still invisible hand over the middle hinge. Both Darien and Mei-Lin caught on, with Darien going high and Mei-Lin low. When the frost lay thick upon all three hinges Hobbes warned them back. One swift kick and the gate snapped open to swing about and then fly off, the lock not able to withstand the attack from its weak side, and slammed into the ground with a loud clang. "Move!" Hobbes barked as the Quicksilver dropped away from him and Mei-Lin.

Sixth was mainly business district, with far fewer restaurants and therefore people on the street, but their exposed position didn't last for long as a trio of Agency POS-mobiles roared down the street towards them, the brakes squealing as they skidded to a halt near the trio.

Darien and Mei-Lin dove into the back of one, Hobbes into another and they roared away, hooking a left back onto Island Avenue and then up 5th and right past the black sedan with several Chinese milling about it. Darien couldn't resist the temptation to give a wave as they rolled by.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Four

 

"Claire!" Darien shouted at the metal door that lay at the end of the slightly downward sloping hallway. Carefully held in his arms, her soft groans of discomfort and pain being expressed against his chest, was the petite form of Mei-Lin. His heart ached, and he flinched internally at every whimper and soft cry, wanting to blame himself for the trouble she was now in, no matter that he knew it wasn't his fault… not directly anyway.

Relief swept through him as the door slid open without him having to fumble for his key or wait for Hobbes to catch up, and the harried visage of his Keeper appeared, her wait for their return apparently no less a trial then their mad dash home had been. She took in the situation in one cool glance and blocked his entry to the Keep. "Lab Three. She'll be more comfortable there." Taking off at a hurried walk with Darien right on her heels, she led the way to the little used lab. She just barely got the door open and the lights on before Darien went through the door sideways and right past her to set Mei-Lin gently on the hospital style bed that lay within, a reminder of the time his mind had been taken over by the former owner of the gland … Simon Cole.

Claire's eyes widened in blatant surprise as the realization of the woman's condition registered fully on her mind. "How far along?" she asked as she searched for and found a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope in one of the drawers lining the one wall of the room.

"Six months," Mei-Lin answered in a tight voice as she curled on her side with a low groan, her arms wrapped protectively about her abdomen.

Darien reached out to brush the hair off her face. "Easy. Relax," he murmured in a soothing tone.

Claire's gaze snapped away from the woman lying in pain on the bed to the worried countenance of her Kept. "What happened?"

"Ahh… The van died and we had to run…five or six blocks before back up arrived," Darien answered in a quiet voice, his focus never once changing. "She started feeling pain in the car."

Claire nodded. "Dr. Chong, you need to relax and breathe deeply."

There was a tight nod of response from Mei-Lin, but it took several long minutes before Mei-Lin uncurled and rolled slowly onto her back. "This has happened before. It's stress related."

That didn't stop Claire from taking Mei-Lin's blood pressure or pulse. Claire did smile as she set the diaphragm of the stethoscope on Mei-Lin's abdomen. "Nice and steady."

"And kicking," Mei-Lin commented as one hand moved to rest against the spot.

Darien opened his mouth for an instant, wanting to ask for something he had no right to participate in, so he instead said nothing at all.

Mei-Lin must have guessed at what Darien had been unable to say. "Would you like to feel?"

Finding himself unable to answer verbally, Darien simply nodded, and Mei-Lin took his nearest hand and set it over the spot. His brows knitted together in consternation as he initially felt nothing, but at the first strong kick against his hand, which was swiftly followed by several more, his look brightened, and a single word escaped past the astonishment he felt. "Cool." Both women smiled at his simple and honest reaction.

Hobbes poked his head in the doorway. "Here you are, been looking all over this place for ya. Come on, Fawkes, pow-wow in the Chief's office." However, instead of heading back out the door, he entered the room and sidled over to Claire. "Everything okay?"

"So far," Claire answered as she turned away from the sight of Mei-Lin and Darien, who was still looking at where his hand lay in wonderment. "Let me get her stable and patch that arm wound, and I'll know better."

Darien chuckled. "Keep, you're just looking forward to running some tests on someone other than uncooperative me, is all." Catching the look on his partner's face he somehow screwed up the courage to ask. "Where's Alex?"

"Now that's a real good question, my friend," Hobbes commented as Darien removed his hands from Mei-Lin and frowned. "A real good question indeed."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_Thomas Gray, in memoriam to a very stupid cat, recited in verse,_

_From hence, ye beauties, undeceived_

_Know one false step is ne'er retrieved_

_And be with caution bold._

_Not all that tempts your wandering eyes_

_And heedless hearts is lawful prize,_

_Not all that glitters is gold._

_Or Quicksilver, as the case may be._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Eberts was pacing back and forth behind the Official's desk as the owner of said desk frowned at the voice coming across the phone pressed to his ear.

"No. That is not an option."

As Darien and Bobby entered the room Eberts motioned for them to be quiet, causing them to glance at each other, shrug as one, and then sit on opposite sides of the conference table. Eberts noted that Darien had yet to remove the prosthetics and was still wearing the uniform, though without the formal jacket. The gun belt looked decidedly out of place on the lanky agent, who, though now perfectly capable of handling a variety of weapons, still was not very comfortable with them. Second, he noticed the bag that Hobbes had set on the table and proceeded to pull a variety of hardbound notebooks out of. Darien grabbed a couple, and Eberts moved to stand behind him, observing the data on the pages as Darien thumbed through them. Eberts forced himself not to laugh aloud as Darien, obviously thrown by the formulaic symbols, turned the notebook completely upside down to try and decipher their meaning. A few more page turns and it suddenly dawned on Eberts what the contents of the notebooks most likely were.

Eberts snatched the notebook out of Darien's hand and quickly flipped through more pages as shock liberally tinged with greed rushed through him and, heedless of Darien's minor protests, he carried the precious notebook over to the Official's desk and set it down. Tapping it urgently he waited till he was sure of the Official's mostly undivided attention and mouthed a single word, "recycler," which earned a grim smile from the Official.

"No!" The Official repeated emphatically to whomever was on the other end of the phone line. "The Doctor is under the protection of this Agency and the US government. However…" He let the sentence hang until there was a response, however reluctantly drawn from the speaker at the other end. "That could be arranged." He paused with a slight frown crossing his features. "Yes, a reasonable supply could be provided."

Darien and Bobby eyed the Official warily, making it plain that they really wanted to know what was going on.

"No, I'll need more time than that." The 'Fish rolled his eyes. "All right. Yes. No, that won't do. I want this done in public."

"Horton Plaza," Darien tossed out, even though it was obvious he still wasn't quite sure what was happening.

One gray eyebrow went up on the 'Fish's forehead, but he still made the suggestion. The location was nearby and even at the agreed upon hour would be more than public enough for the exchange. "Horton Plaza. Yes, the Planet Hollywood." He pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. "No, they won't be open that early. The entrance off Broadway will do."

"Eberts…," Hobbes spoke softly, but was still silenced with a harsh "shhhh" and a sharp hand wave by the man he had tried to speak to. Hobbes huffed and glared at Eberts who easily ignored the non-verbal response from the other agent.

"I would highly recommend that Agent Monroe be returned unharmed." A hint of a snarl crossed the 'Fish's lips. "We'll be there." He hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes before sliding his glasses down from where they had been perched high on his forehead.

"Damn. So they did get Monroe," Hobbes sighed with a headshake. "She okay?"

"So they claim," The Official answered.

"We are not giving Mei-Lin back." Darien's tone and body language made it clear that he'd rebel completely if it were even suggested as an option.

"No, we are not," Eberts told them as he took up his traditional position.

"Then what…?" Hobbes groaned. "The data and the backpack."

"And a supply of Quicksilver," The Official agreed as he settled back into his chair. He already had several ideas for how to make an end run around the Chinese's demands, the others he would have to leave up to his agents to figure out.

Darien shook his head in confusion. "I thought we were trying to keep that stuff from them?"

"Yes, and I intend to keep it that way."

"How?" Hobbes asked.

"That's for you to figure out. I suggest you get to it." The Official shifted slightly; it had been a long day and he was getting very tired, but he made a point to not let it show. "How is Dr. Chong?"

"Dunno yet. Claire's checking her out right now," Darien answered with a hint of suspicion tingeing his words.

"And the baby?" Eberts queried in a completely bland tone, which caused the Official to growl under his breath and shoot a scathing glare at his underling.

"You knew?" Hobbes shoved his chair back and got to his feet. "Any other surprises for us ya fat bast…"

"Hobbes!" the Official barked, cutting off the remainder of the rant. "You have six hours to figure out how to give the Chinese what they want without giving them what they want." He ignored the angry looks from both agents and simply glared at them until Darien also got to his feet. The Official was actually surprised there had been no commentary from the plainly dissatisfied and upset agent. His attention turned to Darien. "I  _always_  know what is going on with my agents.

Before Darien had a chance to process the meaning of that comment Hobbes nudged him verbally into motion.

"Come on, Fawkes. Let's get you looking like yourself, then we'll consult with the Keep on this." Hobbes headed towards the glass door and swung it open.

Darien shuffled over, one hand running absently through his hair and making the darker than normal locks stand up awkwardly. "Man, I'm seriously thinking I should've stayed home today."

The door shut on those words and the Official turned to Eberts. "What can you do with these?"

He tapped the notebook still lying on the desktop before him.

"I can… scan the pages into the computer system," Eberts answered after a moment to consider the options. "Once the data from the Embassy is decrypted I can run a comparison…"

"Yes, yes. You have two hours to finish with these." The Official handed the notebook to Eberts, not wanting or needing to know the details of what the man had planned. Whatever it was it was sure to be done swiftly and efficiently and make the best use of the resources they had on hand.

"Yes, sir." Eberts took the notebook and moved quickly to gather up the others that still lay on the conference table. "As quickly as I can, sir."

The Official watched as Eberts moved as quickly as he ever did and seconds later the door shut softly behind him, leaving the Official once more alone. Removing his glasses, he dropped them onto the surface of the desk and leaned back in the chair, ignoring the sounds of discontent emanating from the inanimate object. Rubbing his eyes he sighed deeply. "I agree, Darien; today would have been a perfect day to stay home. Shame neither of us has that choice."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien leaned slumped back against the cheap plaster wall just down the hall from Lab Three where Claire was presumably still examining Mei-Lin and the baby. He could only hope they were both all right as he was unwilling to intrude and add even more stress to what Mei-Lin was already burdened with. He ran his hands through his hair, causing it to temporarily return to its normally upswept position. It was still dark, even though his features were once again his own and not that of a stranger, the sun lightened brown was hidden beneath the false layer of color and would remain so until the mission was complete and he was allowed to return home.

Hobbes had returned to the Official's office to plan out the exchange, even though they, as yet, had nothing they were prepared to trade to get Alex back, because until Claire was done with Mei-Lin there was no one to discuss or plan with for the more technical aspects, such as how to not give them the Quicksilver while giving them the Quicksilver. So instead he had paced the halls, stewed over the way things had gone down earlier, and tried to stay awake.

The door he'd been studiously not watching for the last fifteen minutes finally opened and Claire stepped into the hallway, the dim light from within casting her shadow across the floor and far wall until the door swung shut and left them standing in the dimly lit corridor. As he watched in his peripheral vision, she placed her hands on the small of her back and arched to try and stretch out tired muscles. Once again she seemed to be able to read his mind.

"Both of them are fine."

Darien released a ragged breath that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. "You sure?" He didn't even turn to look at her, his focus on a suddenly fascinating elephantine shape caused by the convergence of several warps in the flooring. Seconds later he felt a warm hand laid on his bare forearm.

"Darien, it has nothing to do with your dream. It is nothing more than coincidence," she tried to reassure him.

"You don't know that," Darien hissed as he finally met her eyes. "How many times does it have to happen before it's no longer coincidence?" He watched her frown, betting she was counting up the times he'd come to her in the last two and a half years with some odd dream only to have it end up being an eerie reflection of the reality that eventually happened. The thing was, he'd not told Claire about all of them, just the ones that both made the greatest impression and caused him the greatest concern.

"Darien…"

"Later, Keep." Darien summarily decided that now was not the time to discuss some of the stranger aspects of being the receptacle of the Quicksilver gland. "We need your help with…"

She waved a hand. "Yes, I know." Crooking a finger she strode down the hall. "Follow me."

Shoving away from the wall he slouched along behind her. He wasn't really paying attention to where they were going so he was rather surprised when they stopped before a door he recognized. "This is Lab Two, right? Where Gloria stayed?"

Claire nodded as she entered the code for the door. "Yes, I've been using it for some of my more esoteric research." Four steps across the floor and she was entering a second code, which opened the second door onto the main room. It had changed greatly from his last visit, no longer the slightly sterile hospital-like setting. Now there were lab benches, a variety of tools and other equipment upon them and a row of solid steel cabinets along the back wall. They looked similar to the row of coolers along the one wall of the Keep, but much more solid, like the scientist version of a safe.

She went to the one on the far right and, withdrawing a key from her pocket, unlocked the door, revealing a second one with an electronic lock that required a six-digit code that Darien noted out of habit. From its depths Claire withdrew two very familiar items, which she carried over to a cleared area on one of the lab tables and set them down upon.

"Where'd we get the second one?" Darien asked as he looked over the pair of Quicksilver backpacks that lay before him.

"I built it," Claire explained with a hint of pride. "However, it is non-functional."

"Keepy's been busy reverse-engineering the other team's toys," Darien said in a teasing tone that did nothing to hide his astonishment of her skill and intelligence. He carefully compared the backpacks, finding that, on the surface that they appeared to be identical, so he was forced to assume that it was the interior structure that differed.

"The Official would not allow me to dismantle the original so I've been forced to rely on X-rays, CT and MRI scans to try and ascertain the workings of the inner structure. With limited success, I'm afraid." Claire made it plain she was unhappy with the situation.

"So we give them the fake," Darien commented thoughtfully. "What about the Quicksilver that they want?"

"I've got a few ideas on that as well." Picking up the original, she returned it to the safe and locked it away, returning the key to her pocket when she was done. "Will you assist me?"

Darien shrugged not sure how much help he could to her. "I guess. What can I do?" She handed him the fake Quicksilver backpack and he followed her out of Lab Two and back towards the Keep.

"I'll need fresh samples of Quicksilver to test a variety of reagents on. I need something that'll cause the Quicksilver to break down quickly once exposed to air, rendering it useless and making it difficult to duplicate," she told him as they turned the final corner to the Keep.

Darien absently scratched the back of his neck with his free hand as he mulled her words. He was at least marginally conversant with how the gland and his body worked together to make this miracle of invisibility occur. "Like to make it flake and then biodegrade faster?"

"Exactly," Claire agreed as she slid her key through the slot in the lock and waited for the door to rumble open. Once inside she took the backpack from him and waved him towards the exam chair. "Up you go."

Darien slid onto the chair as she cleared a spot near one of her computers for the backpack. "Ah, the memories."

Claire bustled about gathering whatever items she deemed necessary to run her little Quicksilver experiments. Darien relaxed back against the slightly reclined chair and allowed himself to drift; while not quite asleep he wasn't exactly all there either. At least at first. Within moments his wandering mind found its way into that dark corner where he tried to keep those things better left untouched by his waking mind buried from the light of day.

He found himself back in the recurring dream, only this time he skipped ahead, straight to the scene with the red-eyed baby and the woman he now knew to be Mei-Lin. Instead of shouting "no" as he had done in every previous replay he said in a sad voice, "I'm sorry."

Mei-Lin shook her head and held the infant out to him, and he found himself gingerly taking the child into his arms. "You have to protect him." She gestured and Darien turned about to see what, at first glance, was nothing more than an elaborate crib.

Unsure of her intent, he began, "Mei-Lin…"

"It is necessary," she stated, but her voice came from far away and when Darien turned to look at her she'd vanished into the rapidly gathering mist. Confused, he turned back to the crib and slowly walked towards it. Almost against his will, he set the infant down and then lowered the lid. The soft cries were cut off as the surface began to frost over, the fog created by condensation rising up about the coffin-like metallic box as he backed away. What the crib really was finally registered on his mind as nothing less than one of the Chrysalis cryo-pods.

With a physical twitch that very nearly dumped him onto the floor Darien awoke as Claire gently laid a warm hand on his shoulder. A strangled yelp was all that got past his lips as he righted himself on the exam chair.

"Bad?" Claire asked as she reflexively took his pulse one he had settled.

"Bad enough," he answered as he tried to convince his racing heart to slow down to something vaguely resembling normal. "How long was I out?"

"About 45 minutes. You looked like you needed it, and, no, you didn't delay anything," she assured him with a nod at the lab table covered in various vials filled with a variety of colored substances. "Want to talk about it?"

Darien shook his head, not really wanting to probe at the potential meanings of this newest version of the nightmare. Especially not now, when they still had some very real and very serious issues to deal with.

"All right," Claire responded as a tall thin beaker with regular milliliter markings on its side magically appeared in her hand. "Fill 'er up."

Darien blinked at her, at first not entirely sure exactly what it was she wanted him to fill the beaker up with and hoping like hell it wasn't what he thought it was, because after that dream nothing like that would be happening. "Keep…"

"With Quicksilver," Claire said in exasperation causing Darien to blush in embarrassment.

"Uh, yeah. Quicksilver, of course." He tried to cover the fact that his thoughts had gone in an entirely different direction, but still saw the slight grin that passed across the Keeper's lips before she got herself under control. Things had never been quite the same after that little dual madness induced incident at the dock yard, but they had eventually gotten past the discomfort and refused to let it affect their relationship -- their friendship -- any more than it already had. Holding the beaker in his right hand he directed the Quicksilver to flow along his left to slip off the ends of his fingers and into the container in a steady stream where it pooled in a silvery liquid mass. Once it was roughly three-quarters of the way filled - about six ounces of Quicksilver - Claire motioned for him to stop.

"Perfect."

Shaking the remaining amount from his fingers, he held the quickly chilling glass beaker out to her and watched her take it with a heavily gloved hand. She carried it quickly over to a large insulated container and poured it inside, where it would remain liquid until she needed a sample to perform her tests on. Turning his right hand over, he checked the snake that lay coiled quietly there; its emerald green scales still strangely comforting to see. After living so long in fear of the colors changing, of the green being subsumed by red, and his mind sliding down that slippery slope into madness, he still needed the reassurance that seeing the snake completely green brought to him.

"It still surprises you even after all this time." It was most definitely a statement and not a question.

He drew one leg up onto the chair and wrapped his arms about it. "Yeah, I guess it does."

"Darien, every test I've run says that the gene therapy worked exactly like… Arnaud suggested it would." The obvious reluctance to mention Darien's personal nemesis was easily discerned by him.

"I know, and I guess that's why I keep waiting for that other shoe to drop." He slipped off the exam chair. "I'm gonna find out what's going on, okay?"

Claire looked him over thoughtfully for a moment before nodding. "I'll call if I need another sample."

Darien stepped through the doorway as soon as there was enough room to slide his thin frame through. "Milked by force or by request; there ain't much difference."

He ignored Claire's indignant squawk of "Darien…" that was cut off as the door shut.

To avoid a reprimand or discussion on the now suddenly touchy subject Darien let the gland do its little trick and coat his body in the light bending substance it produced in seemingly infinite amounts and vanished from sight mere seconds later. Moving silently, he made his way through the dark corridors in search of his partner and news from the front.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hobbes rubbed the top of his head, the few remaining hairs bristling upright as if laden with static electricity at the action. "Okay, the Keep has the fake backpack and is working on rigging the Quicksilver to self-destruct, right?"

"That is an accurate summation, Robert," Eberts agreed. "But they are demanding the return of the notebooks as well."

"You said you made copies," Hobbes stated, but waited for confirmation from one of the two other people in the room.

"I scanned the pages into the mainframe, but it might very well take years to…" Eberts stopped as Hobbes waved a hand at him in irritation.

"We have copies," Hobbes reiterated. "So we give 'em the originals back just like they want." A sly grin crossed his features.

"Bobby, take your meds." The Official's tone failed to hide his exhaustion or frustration.

Hobbes debated a snappy comeback, but chose to explain what he meant instead. "You give 'em back the notebooks, but change some of the numbers. How are they gonna know if there's been a few adjustments; she supposedly wiped their computer system so's they got nothin' to compare 'em to."

The Official chuckled. "Brilliant, Bobby. I'm suitably impressed." Hobbes tipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Eberts."

"Sir." Eberts was instantly attentive.

"Find out if Dr. Chong is awake and have her assist. We don't need a nuclear meltdown because we juggled the wrong decimal point," The Official told him.

Eberts quickly gathered up the notebooks. "Yes, sir." And quickly left the room.

"Bobby."

"Yes, Chief?"

"Find Fawkes. We have less than two hours to pull this off."

"Will do sir. He'll be ready." Hobbes turned about and headed for the door Eberts had not used.

The Official's look hardened. "No, Bobby, he won't."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hobbes found Darien in Lab Three, which had become the default command center since Claire was reluctant to move Mei-Lin, especially with the numerous monitors still attached to various parts of her anatomy as well as the I.V. line still stuck in the back of one hand. While looking better than earlier, she still did not look right, and there wasn't a single person in the building that would try and force her to move without there being a life or death emergency.

Mei-Lin was involved in an intense discussion with Claire and Eberts, though the latter was interjecting only the occasional comment, while Darien sat on the end of the bed, one leg drawn up and the other dangling off the side swinging slowly back and forth. He had a magazine folded over in one hand and appeared to be fully absorbed in whatever he was reading, the conversation drifting right past him unheeded.

As Hobbes watched, the semi-polite discussion heated up, bordering on a full-blown argument. Casually Darien shifted position to lay on his side, practically curled about Mei-Lin's feet, one hand reaching out to tap her on the calf hidden under the blanket and defusing the situation almost instantly. He never even looked up from the page, yet it was plain he'd taken on the burden of moderating the exchange of information even though he most likely understood only one word in three.

"The Official will not allow any version of Quicksilver technology out of his direct control," Eberts stated flatly.

"And who appointed him arbiter of this technology?" Mei-Lin snapped.

"I got a question." All eyes turned to focus on Hobbes as he paced slowly across the room towards the group. "Where'd you get the Quicksilver for the backpack?"

Darien perked up at that, setting the magazine down, but maintaining the bored expression on his face to prove he was not really interested in the answer. "Yeah, I coulda sworn we destroyed the supply they… took."

"A small sample was reserved and from it. I was able to duplicate the Quicksilver," Mei-Lin answered without disseminating.

"But if they have the formula why do they what Darien for a new supply?" Claire asked with more than a little confusion in her voice.

"'Cause they don't, Keep. Not anymore." Hobbes waved a hand at Mei-Lin. "Lost in yer accident, I'm bettin'."

Mei-Lin reluctantly nodded in agreement. "All that remained was the one sample reserved for the backpack, and no one wanted to risk destroying it while I was recovering."

"You're good," Darien said with false joviality. "Musta had the Quicksilver copied within weeks and then got right to work on an alternative to the gland." He met Mei-Lin's eyes, which held neither guilt nor embarrassment in their dark brown depths. She'd been doing her job and no more and though Darien liked to think she was one their side now, he was fully cognizant of the fact that she had once worked for the enemy.

"You copied Fawkes' Quicksilver, but didn't deal with the nutso side effect, how?" Hobbes truly sounded curious.

"The Quicksilver was never the carrier for the disinhibitor. A secondary chemical produced by the gland had the toxin piggybacked onto its code. When that substance is secreted the toxin is filtered away and remains in Darien's system," Claire explained with carefully chosen words since Darien had warned her earlier about the Chinese's apparent lack of knowledge about his cure.

"So when that Counteragent Two was used the toxin was secreted out and became transmittable via the infected Quicksilver flakes in which it had become highly concentrated," Hobbes summed up, causing everyone in the room to stare at him in surprise. "What?"

"Nothing, Hobbes. Go back to sleep." Darien shivered slightly; for a second there Hobbes had sounded just like he had when he'd been nailed with that genius retro-virus over a year ago.

Hobbes grunted. "I'll sleep when this is over. Now, what's the problem?"

They all looked expectantly at Mei-Lin.

"All right. I'll make the alterations, but I am going to want concessions from this Fat Man of yours." She was frowning as she spoke, but took the notebooks from Eberts as he handed them to her.

"Anything within reason," Eberts told her with a look that said he was speaking for the Official at that moment. The next question was all his own. "Why did you come back?'

Mei-Lin paled slightly, the subject a touchy one for her. She brushed her hair back out of nervousness. "There were… anomalies with some of the standard second trimester tests that had been run. Every blood test including the AFP showed unusual substances in my system, though the ultrasound showed no abnormalities. It wasn't until I obtained access to a lab to examine the blood samples for myself that I was able to determine what the problem appears to be. Apparently the Quicksilver left some minute traces behind." She shrugged, but looked at Claire and some wordless communication passed between the two women. "Your Dr. Keeply has agreed to perform some more detailed tests, including an amniocentesis, that I had been unable to arrange in secrecy."

"The Keep, here, will make sure everything is just fine," Hobbes said with absolute confidence in their Keeper.

"So now what?" Darien set down the magazine and rolled slightly to look at Hobbes, who was pacing back and forth across the room. Five steps, turn, five steps. He paused for a second at Darien's question, but took up the movement again as he answered.

"Wait for the Doc here to finish doctoring the books and then make the meet in," he glanced at the clock mounted high up on the wall, "less than an hour."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The sun was above the horizon, already well clear of the high dusty hills that lay just east of the city. Where the three Agency pool vehicles sat was still deep in shadow, the man-made mountains of glass and steel preventing those first warming rays from alighting upon them. The peaceful stillness of the morning was broken by an irritation laden voice.

"Just one shot, Fawkes, and we can be eating city squab for lunch," Hobbes grumbled as his hand twitched towards his gun.

Darien fought the sudden urge to laugh. "Hobbes, you are not shooting that bird just for doing what comes natural."

The bird in question once again went into its trilling repertoire that was its way of greeting the new day, causing Hobbes to glare and Darien to set a hand on his shoulder to, hopefully, keep him from pulling the gun and firing.

"This isn't about the bird, is it?"

Hobbes sighed and slumped back against the side of the dark green Ford pool vehicle they had driven to the meet. "She just looked so bad, Fawkes. I dunno if I can save her."

Darien patted him on the back in a consoling manner and made sure his high strung partner didn't see the grin on his face, knowing full well exactly how sensitive Hobbes could be about that van. "She'll make it, man. No one knows her better than you," he said in the most serious tone he could manage.

Hobbes snuffled a bit. "Thanks. With you helping I'm sure we'll have her good as new in no time at all."

Darien groaned softly; he'd wanted no part of fixing up the van the first time around and really had no interest in doing it again. He glanced about at the Agency suits as they failed to blend in about the small heavily landscaped square in front of the Planet Hollywood. The one guy slowly pacing about the fountain stuck out like a sore thumb, the dark suit and glasses completely out of place beside the gaily bubbling fountain, and had drawn the attention of more than one commuter driving by heading to, or perhaps even from work.

"Where are they?" Darien muttered as he snapped the piece of gum he'd stuffed in his mouth on the drive over here.

"They'll be here." Hobbes swung right back to the job at hand, the glimpse of the man behind the agent fading into the background. "Time for you to disappear, my friend."

"Huh?" Darien asked, not sure where Hobbes' mind had wandered off to now.

"You remember…" Hobbes stopped and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Forgot you weren't there for the plannin' stages. All right, we need these guys to think we're gonna double-cross them."

"Hobbes, we are gonna double-cross them," Darien said with his head cocked at an angle as he eyed his partner.

"But they don't know that." He slid his glasses down and looked over the top of them at Darien, then clucked his tongue in dismay. "You've been straight too long. You've forgotten how to sell the con."

"Oh, now I am truly wounded." Darien drew a hand to his heart and mimed having suffered from a serious blow to the chest. "What the hell are you talking about, Hobbes?"

"We gotta give 'em an obvious double-cross so's they don't catch on to the subtle one. Capish?" Hobbes explained in a tone that implied Darien should know this by now.

Darien rolled his eyes. "I got it, though I'm thinking a bit of your family might have rubbed off after that visit." Darien easily dodged the fist swung at him, noting the hint of a grin about Hobbes' lips. "Seriously, which one of us made a living running cons?" The droll look Hobbes gave Darien made him quickly reconsider wanting to hear the answer. "Never mind."

"Fawkes…"

"I'm going. I'm going." Stepping away from the car, the Quicksilver crawled across his skin, outward over his clothes, sheathing him in liquid ice and making the garish colors of the exterior of the restaurant fade to monochromatic, his peripheral vision leaving fiery trails of white on his minds eye as he turned his head to survey the surroundings in more detail. The Quicksilver actually improved his vision somewhat as the darker shadows lightened dramatically, revealing plants and flowers that had previously been hidden to him.

He wandered over to the sidewalk and then up the lower half of the staircase to the restaurant proper, giving him some height to look over the area with. His move was well timed as three late model Cadillacs rolled up and parked on 4th. Four men stepped out of two of the cars, two of which Darien recognized. Leaning against the railing Darien watched as two strode cautiously forward, Ming along with what seemed to be a generic bodyguard type, to be joined by Hobbes and another agent on the sidewalk at the foot of the stairs. Darien observed all this with a bit of bemusement, not entirely sure what Hobbes expected him to do to sell this to the Chinese.

"Where is our equipment?" Ming asked brusquely.

"Lemme see Monroe," Hobbes ordered, one hand brushing aside his jacket to rest on his hip and allow a clear view of his Colt.

Ming raised one hand and snapped his fingers. The rear door on the third car opened and a man slid out. Darien's eyes widened in surprise when he saw the man; while definitely Chinese he easily stood six feet tall, but was triple Darien's own wiry musculature. Dragged along behind the hulk, who had a fierce and probably painful grip on her upper arm, was Alex, who was looking more than a little upset about the whole situation.

As Darien watched she tried to jerk her arm free, without success, but it gave him an idea of how to cause some trouble and maybe just sell this con.

"You okay, Monroe?" Hobbes asked of the plainly frustrated woman.

"Fine. Had a lovely nap." Alex tried to pull her arm away again, but the guy tightened his grip, causing her to gasp and pale slightly in reaction.

"Tranqed ya, did they?"

Alex shrugged. "Four on one. I'll give you the play by play later."

"There will be no later unless we get what we came for. I am quite certain Agent Monroe can be…. persuaded to give up information on any number of projects and missions that your government would rather we knew nothing about." Ming's voice was cold and hard, an eerie reflection of the Official when he was in one of his moods.

"Eberts," Hobbes barked.

The rear door of the dark blue Agency vehicle opened and Eberts appeared, clutching one of those ubiquitous white cardboard file boxes to his chest. He glanced about nervously at first, but drew himself up to his full height, which nearly matched Darien's, and strode confidently to Hobbes and the group gathering on the sidewalk. Once he took his place beside Hobbes, all the others, both Embassy and Agency, joined them, looking for all the world like a group of crows circling about a tasty morsel they'd spotted from high above. Only Monroe and the hulking brute holding her stayed behind.

"Let me see," Ming ordered.

Eberts began to lift the top off the box, but Hobbes slapped his hand down on it, shutting it again. "Bring Monroe over."

"Agreed. Xing."

Xing, the sumo wrestler in disguise as the Embassy muscle, adjusted his grip on Alex's arm and pulled her along with him even though she wasn't fighting him at all. He had moved maybe ten feet when he suddenly stopped dead, his eyes nearly bugging out in reaction to something no one else could see. However, he refused to loosen his grip on Alex, and, in fact, began to increase pressure, giving Alex the opportunity to take action. Shifting slightly, she stomped one thin heel down on the muscle's instep making him roar in pain and release her. Then he inexplicably fell forward onto the concrete, his hands coming out just in time to keep the majority of the skin on his face from being sanded off by the rough surface.

Guns instantly appeared in hands aimed at every visible member of Agency personnel.

"Whoa. Hold up," Hobbes shouted, his hands coming up to half-mast in hopes of defusing the suddenly volatile scene. The gunshots on the street last night had caused enough havoc once the van had been traced back to the Agency; they really didn't need this getting out of hand. "Your guy's a klutz and the hardware comes out?"

Alex froze in place, instead of taking off like every instinct was screaming for her to do. This time all the guns were loaded with bullets and not tranquillizers, and she had every intention in living to fight another day.

"Just go with the flow," a chill breeze whispered in her ear, making her visibly shiver in reaction.

"Faw…" She stopped as an icy finger was pressed to her lips.

"Shhhh!" he hissed as he released Alex, her hand going reflexively to her mouth.

The incredible bulk hadn't taken the hint and was trying to get back to his feet so Darien

intervened and, with a well-placed kick to the man's midsection, had him back on the ground, his air having been expelled with a whoosh at the violent contact. It would probably take several minutes before he would be showing any interest in the proceedings.

Ming cursed softly in Chinese. "Where is Fawkes?"

Hobbes played the complete innocent, laying it on as thick as he dared. "Who?"

"Find him," Ming barked and three of the Chinese agent pulled out thermal goggles disguised as stylish sunglasses. Within seconds they had spotted Darien, who was walking calmly towards the main group.

"Fawkes," Hobbes called out, conceding that Darien was indeed there.

"Yeah?" Darien snapped his gum as he allowed the Quicksilver to flake away to reveal him standing directly behind Ming, much to that man's shock. "So, we gonna do this or not?" Darien casually walked about Ming, ignoring the trio of guns pointed at himself to stand beside Eberts.

"You would try to double-cross us?" Ming sounded appropriately indignant.

"Like you wouldn't have done the same," Hobbes sneered. "Eberts."

Eberts removed the cover from the box and allowed Ming to examine the items inside. A look of pure greed momentarily crossed the man's features. "Kairong." The man standing next to Ming reached for the box only to have Darien bat his hands away and wag a finger in admonishment.

"Uh, uh." Darien nodded towards Alex who was standing as patiently as she could manage with Xing who had finally regained his breath and his feet. His weapon was aimed at her midsection. "We get her, you get the box."

Both Ming and Ma glared at Darien, but he kept his look bored, as if he could care less if they changed their minds and instead chose to take Alex and whatever information they could squeeze from her instead of what was in box number one.

"Do it," Ming finally said.

Alex was escorted, though without the forceful hold of earlier, until she stood in front of

Hobbes. He reached a hand out for Alex and nodded to Eberts who held the box out to Ma. The man practically snatched it from Eberts' grasp he was so eager to have it in his possession.

Hobbes grabbed Alex by the forearm, but didn't need to pull as she quickly stepped forward and then behind Hobbes who swung an arm about her protectively.

The foursome began to back away; Xing's drawn gun aimed at Darien's head stopped them.

"Check the contents," Ming said with a dangerous smile.

Wang suddenly appeared beside Ma and, after giving Eberts a companionable nod of mutual lackey-dom, began to go through the contents of the box with a swift efficiency. With economical motions he went through each of the notebooks, examined the backpack with a gimlet eye and then unscrewed the top of the canister containing the Quicksilver. Dipping a pen, fished from an inner pocket of his jacket, it came back out missing its lower half. With a nod from Ming, the cap was replaced on the canister and Xing's gun vanished from sight.

"Tell your Official to expect my call." And with that the entire Chinese contingent turned away and hurried back to their cars.

Hobbes turned his head slightly. "Hawkins."

One of the faceless Agency men appeared as if conjured up by magic.

"Follow them. I want to know where Ming the Merciless, there, ends up. Embassy, airport, hell, if he takes a train to Tijuana for a weekend of cheap booze and cheaper women I want to know about it. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." Hawkins headed for the off-white Lincoln and seconds later he and his partner were off to tail the black sedans that had left seconds before.

Darien sidled over to Alex, turning her about and resting his hands gingerly on her shoulders, unsure of how much, if any, contact she would be willing to accept. "Are you all right?"

"Well, I was fine until you," her voice rose to a shout for the next word, " _idiots_  gave them exactly what they wanted." She didn't shrug off Darien's hands, but did glare at each of them in turn."

"I'd say she's just fine," Hobbes commented as he slipped off the glasses and slid them into his pocket.

"Yep, same sharp-tongued lass we know and love," Darien agreed, ignoring the look of pure anger that flashed deep within her blue eyes. "Glad to have you back."

Those words caused the fire to gutter and die out, a sigh escaping from her. "You shouldn't have traded that data for me," she insisted.

Eberts cleared his throat. "Technically we didn't, Miss Monroe. The items were all doctored. If we're lucky they'll head straight back to Beijing with them."

Understanding dawned for both Alex and the rest of them as the sun finally lifted high enough into the sky to break past the man-made barriers and shine its light down upon the group, chasing away the few remaining shadows. That mystery bird began it lilting call again, and Hobbes groaned.

Darien dealt with the situation in his usual manner. "Breakfast? I'm starved."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag

 

"Well?" The Official asked as he signed the paper Eberts set on the desk before him.

Hobbes stifled a yawn; it had been a fricking long 24 hours and he was looking forward to collapsing on his bed to sleep for at least 12. "Hawkins watched Ming and Wang board a private plane 20 minutes ago."

"My contact in the control tower confirmed a flight plan direct to Beijing, with a refueling stop in Oahu," Eberts informed them.

"So we've bought some breathing space. Good work." The Official set down the pen and looked up at Hobbes, who was yawning again and not bothering to try and hide it this time. "Go home. Both of you."

"Sir?" Eberts sounded very surprised.

"You heard me. Go home, get some sleep and be back here first thing tomorrow." This time the words were quite plainly a direct order.

"Yes, sir." Hobbes mock saluted. "Come on, Eberts, before he changes your mind for you."

With uncommon companionship, the two men left the room walking side-by-side and chatting softly about the past day's events.

Once the Official was certain he was alone and not likely to be disturbed for several minutes he picked up the handset of the phone and dialed a number he had memorized a long time ago. "Let him know everything went as planned."

When he hung up the phone he was smiling.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Knocking on the partially open door Darien was only mildly surprised by the feminine "Come, " from within. After the events of last night he'd have gone home and to bed if he'd been her, but because Alex was… Alex, he'd pretty much expected her to still be here. Perhaps she found some odd sort of comfort in the aged Harding building and the people walking its halls. "Shouldn't you be home doing something normal like sleeping? I'd say you earned it."

Alex looked up at him and he shifted the hanger holding the uniform off his shoulder and around front so that she could see it. "I will as soon as I finish this." She waved at the paperwork on the desk before her.

Darien moved closer and leaned over the desk, noting it was the standard triplicate crap the Official tried to make Darien do and that he blew off more often than not these days. Even now that he was considered a "real agent," he still preferred playing the game his way, if only to piss off the laughing fat man in the office two floors below them. "Blow it off. It'll still be there to do tomorrow." Stepping back he carefully settled into the chair he'd spent a couple hours in the day before as his outward appearance had been altered by the woman sitting across from him. He made sure to drape the uniform across the arms of the chair so none of it dragged on the floor. "Thanks, Alex."

She shrugged, still seeming to be far more focused on the paperwork before her than on Darien. "Part of the job, Fawkes. Try to cover all the contingencies."

"If you say so." Darien noticed she wasn't meeting his eyes. "Look, I want you to know that we wouldn't have let them keep you. And not 'cause it's the job." He got slowly to his feet, assuming, rightly, that after everything she'd been through that she might very well want to be alone.

Setting the pen down with a deliberate movement she looked up at him. "I know, Fawkes." She paused as if fighting with herself over the next words. "I… I want to apologize about my comment yesterday morning. I was out of line." Exhaustion washed across her features for an instant, much to Darien's astonishment. "Looks like nightmares are something we have in common."

Darien wasn't sure what to say. It was so rare that she'd shared anything personal that he was unsure how to respond so he inevitably fell back on sarcasm. "So that explains your wonderful mood all the time."

He watched one eyebrow slip momentarily upwards, but she didn't snap anything back at him. Instead, in a deceptively cool voice she asked, "Anything else, Fawkes?"

"Umm, yeah, actually. I was wondering if I could hang on to the uniform for a couple of weeks."

"Why?"

Darien took a deep breath and rattled off the lines he'd spent the last hour practicing over and over. "For the procurement of vast quantities of manufactured confections."

She looked at him darkly. "Fawkes…"

"Halloween, Alex. I've got invites to a couple of parties and am thinking of crashing a few others." He gave her a shy smile. "'Sides, I like dressing up to hand out candy to the neighborhood kids."

A host of emotions crossed her features, only a few of which Darien could readily identify.

"What happened to 'the ole headless horseman routine'?"

"I guess it's time for something new, is all," Darien answered, surprised at her comment. His penchant for memorizing what others said was not something he'd even have thought to have in common with… anyone much less Alex Monroe.

"Sure, Fawkes. Have fun." Alex's focus shifted back to the report she'd been filling out when he'd interrupted her. Reaching for the pen she sighed softly and got back to work.

"Thanks." Darien said as he turned away from her and to the office door where paused. "Alex."

"Yes?" She didn't even lift her head up to look at him.

"Would you like to join me? At one of the parties that is?" He wasn't quite sure what had made him ask. Maybe it was the subtle look of disappointment he'd thought he'd seen in her eyes when he'd mentioned being invited to the parties.

"Fawkes, I don't date co-workers," Alex reminded him, her voice and posture stiff.

"Do you see a fishing pole?" Darien quickly came back with. "Just two friends spending some quality time together without having to worry about work." He saw the look of combined distrust and disbelief on her face, but something in her eyes made him press on. "What? Want me to swear on my lock picks or something?"

"And if I do?" Her overly cool tone was ruined by the spark of amusement Darien could easily see in her eyes.

"Come on, Alex, I promise to behave. No red-eyed mambo or nothin'," Darien added with a grin.

"Where would the fun be in that?" Alex countered with a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I'll think about it. Give me a call with the time and place."

"Great." Darien was actually thrilled she was willing to even consider it. It was looking like the ice was really beginning to thaw. He stepped through the doorway and began to swing it shut, but one last comment insisted on making itself be heard. "Maybe I'll get to find out a few more of the things that get your motor running."

A shout of "Darien!" was easily heard through the hastily shut door even as some unknown item impacted against the far side of it.

Darien held his place for a moment and smiled at the soft laughter he heard from the far side. Whistling brightly, a lilting trill that might very well have caused Hobbes to draw on him, he made his way through the building, heading down for the lower levels. There was one last stop he had to make before he could go home.

There was life in the building now, that soft subtle buzz that was instantly recognizable as the unnatural ebb and flow of people at work. The relief of the mission having been completed with a reasonable amount of success greatly improving his mood even though he was going very short on his precious and necessary sleep.

Swiping his card through the lock he called out as he entered the darkened lab and hung the uniform on the nearby coat rack. "Honey, I'm home. Are you decent?"

"Yes, Darien." Claire's voice came from the far side of the lab, and he cautiously poked his head around the glass divider to see Claire taking a blood sample from Mei-Lin who sat calmly on the exam chair.

"Everything okay?" He failed to hide his concern for the petite woman sitting on the chair he had learned to hate over the course of two years.

"So far so good," Mei-Lin answered, patting her burgeoning belly as Claire placed a cotton ball over the small wound and folded the arm up to apply pressure.

"Good." Darien sidled up beside her, unsure of his welcome here. "So, ummm, where are you going to be staying?"

"She'll be staying with me for now. I have a spare bedroom she is more than welcome to," Claire answered as she marked the vial of blood and set it in a rack in the glass fronted cooler.

"Is that safe? I mean, I can understand not wanting to stay here. Sleepovers in this place just ain't all that much fun, as I well know." Darien was feeling more than a little protective of both women, making him wonder if he'd been hanging out with Hobbes for too long. "There is the Agency safe house."

"We'll have at least four Agency personnel with us at all times, including two inside the house itself." Claire went to Darien's side and set a hand on his arm. "We'll be perfectly fine."

Mei-Lin muttered, "I am exceedingly tired of being watched by guards."

"I know that feeling," Darien agreed, having dealt with a variety of guards over his many years. In a voice that he tried make sound bored instead of overly curious he asked, "So, when ya due?"

"End of January." Mei-Lin turned to look him in the eyes as she spoke.

Darien remembered her saying she was six months along, but at the time he'd not really thought about exactly what that meant. Counting up both sets of numbers he came up with an answer that was mildly disconcerting. "Okay, unless my math is way off, that would mean you… umm… about the time you were last here."

As one both women said, "I know."

Darien looked at them in consternation, not quite understanding the sharp tone they had each used when answering. "Wait…" He carefully thought it through and all the pieces suddenly fell into place. "Oh."

In the driest tone Claire could manage she said, "Well, that's the understatement of the year."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

_In a movie filled with man-made impossibilities one Dr. Ian Malcolm made what may be the ultimate statement, "Life finds a way."_

_Guess you could say I'm living proof of that, what with that bit of biosynthetic wet-ware tucked quietly into the back of my skull, generously provided by my brother._

_Considering the things I've seen and done since coming to the Agency - men poisonous to the touch, getting to experience old age for an afternoon, nearly killed by a mermaid, being courted by an invisible monster, being stalked by the super-accelerated remains of a dead woman - you'd think I'd be ready for just about anything. None of that could ever have prepared me for the news that I might have helped create a life._

_Oh, crap. Me. A father. The only coherent thought I can remember after the news had sunk in was, "I wonder if it's a girl?"_

 

 

End


	9. Progeny (season 3, episode 9)

Episode Nine

**Progeny**

by CritterKeeper

 

 

Teaser

 

_"Your degree of happiness is directly related to how well you adjust to plan B." I don't know who said that first, but let's just say, right now, I was not a happy camper..._

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Mei-Lin lay in the exam chair, watching the ultrasound monitor as the Keeper ran the probe across her abdomen. The image was a mass of white dots on a black background, nothing but dark and light splotches, until, like a Magic Eye picture, everything suddenly clicked into place.

"There's the uterus, that's amniotic fluid.... we'll follow the wall of the uterus....." Claire dropped a little more conducting gel onto her latest patient's abdomen, just ahead of the probe as it slid slowly across her skin. Shifting the angle a little, she caught a thickened area. "That's the placenta.... looks good so far....."

She'd traced most of the placenta before spotting a small dark area in between the layers of the uterus and the placenta.

"There's the little bugger!"

"What is it?"

"That, Mei-Lin, is the cause of the pain you were feeling...a very small placental abruption. The placenta pulled away from the uterus slightly, breaking some of the blood vessels that feed the baby." At Mei-Lin's look of alarm, Claire hurried to reassure her. "The blood is all yours, and you've plenty to spare at this point. Almost all of the placenta is still firmly attached; it really is a very small abruption. A few days of bed rest, just to be sure it isn't working on becoming a larger one, and both of you should be fine."

Mei-Lin sank back in relief. The pain that had started during their escape had frightened her more than she'd let on. She was constantly amazed anew at how important this baby had become to her. 'A mother's love' was an easy phrase, but it just didn't come close to covering it.

Claire had shifted the angle of the probe to examine the 26-week-old fetus for any signs of distress. A little hand waved gently, but the baby was relatively quiet. Resting up after a long day; even before birth, babies tended to sleep a lot.

"Have you had an amniocentesis?" Claire asked.

Mei-Lin shook her head. "We'd been discussing it before I became a... guest of the MSS."

"Good steady heartbeat," the doctor observed, watching the screen. "Well, that should be our next priority. If we can get a sample of fetal cells, we can determine whether those earlier test results were accurate."

Mei-Lin's face clouded a moment. "I want to know." Her hand reached up towards the screen, tracing the outline of her baby's head. "I know there are other more subtle problems the ultrasound can't detect, but it's reassuring to be able to see that little face, to see that everything at least  _looks_  fine."

Claire glanced over to a motionless figure slouched in a chair by her workbench. The two women exchanged glances, and Mei-Lin gave a slight nod. Claire set down the probe and crossed the room.

Darien sat, staring at empty air a few feet before him. He was oblivious to his Keeper until she put a gentle hand on his shoulder, bringing his attention back to the room with a startled jerk.

"Would you like to come and see this?"

"Huh?" Darien glanced around, taking in the equipment and Mei-Lin's position on the exam chair. "Oh, yeah, yeah!"

Darien approached hesitantly. His eyes met Mei-Lin's, and she could see the fear there; at the moment it was fear of how she would react to him. He stood beside her and hesitantly put a hand on her upper arm. She smiled back just as hesitantly, both of them uncertain how to behave in this situation, and placed a gentle hand on top of his. Still not sure what to say, Mei-Lin nodded her head towards the ultrasound screen, where Claire had once again captured an image of the tiny life inside her.

Darien squinted at the screen. "What... what am I looking at?"

"You see that curve there? That's the back of the baby's head, and here's the spine...."

"Is that an arm?"

"Yes, and that's a leg, and that's.... that's the umbilical cord. Looks like this little one is a bit shy."

"What, so you can't see if it's a girl of a boy?"

"We can give it a moment. Perhaps he or she will wake up and move around enough to get that cord out of the way."

Darien stared at the screen, the far-away look returning to his face.

Claire watched the pair discreetly. Their faces were unguarded, their attention on the screen. Like any expectant mother, Mei-Lin showed a mix of fear, joy, worry, and love. Darien's expression was more complex, with elements of all of the above muted by an overlying uncertainty.

"Darien?"

"Huh?" His head snapped up, his reverie broken.

"Once I get a sample of fetal cells, I'll need a sample from you as well." Off of his blank look, she elaborated, "for genetic comparison. It's easier to set up the test with a fresh sample than to try to dig up an appropriate old one and get it into usable shape."

"Oh, right, right." His hand slipped off of Mei-Lin's arm at this reminder that his status as father was still only a possibility, not yet a certainty. Mei-Lin looked away and down, a faint flush creeping into her cheeks.

"Looks like baby's sound asleep just now." Claire put away the ultrasound probe and began cleaning up, her manner professional and uncondemning. "We can try for a better look a little later, and hopefully the equipment for that amniocentesis will arrive this afternoon."

Claire wheeled the ultrasound into the far corner of the Keep, more to give Darien and Mei-Lin a sense of privacy than to get the bulky cart out of her way, taking several extra minutes to clean conducting gel off of the probe.

Darien stood beside Mei-Lin. His mind was racing too fast for him to keep up; he felt like he was standing still on the sidelines, left behind by his own emotions.

He wanted to say something caring and supportive, to promise to be the father he'd never had. He wanted to run and hide, to crawl under his bedcovers and cry that he wasn't  _ready_  for this responsibility. He wanted to tell her Chen-Po could have them both; he wanted to fight to keep her, her and this precious little life.

In the war for control of his tongue, nobility and caution teamed up to claim the first thing out of his mouth. "Does Chen-Po know?"

Mei-Lin grimaced. "He was so proud when I told him I was pregnant.... until I told him the baby might not be his. That's when he left."

Might. Of course. There it was again, the phrase that kept him off-balance. Every time he thought he was zeroing in on how he felt about becoming a father, something threw back at him that it might not be so anyway.

"He left you?" For one brief moment, Darien felt a thrill of triumph, a primitive exultation that his claim was uncontested. And then fear, panic at the thought of all that responsibility. When she had a fiancé the possibility of ending up with an instant family had seemed a lot more remote.

"My face is bad enough, but this...." Mei-Lin had turned the scarred side of her face away, her hair hanging in front of it like a veil.

"Hey, I thought we had that issue settled!" Darien chided. "Your face didn't get in the way of... of anything, for either of us, right?"

"How could I forget?" she asked, arching one eyebrow, her hand touching her midsection.

The moment ended when Bobby Hobbes came into the Keep in search of his partner. Darien quickly, almost guiltily, moved away from her a step, before he even thought about it, but Mei-Lin had leaned slightly away as well, so he decided she wouldn't hold it against him.

"How's it going, partner?" Bobby smiled casually down at Mei-Lin. "Everything okay?" His offhand attitude reminded Darien that he hadn't exactly passed along the details of his adventure with the invisible woman six months ago.

"Everything looks good so far," Mei-Lin replied quietly, self-consciously pulling down her shirt, which had been raised to expose her abdomen for the ultrasound. "But I will need to 'take it easy' for a few days, according to your doctor."

"Don't worry about it, you're in good hands with the Keeper here." He turned to Darien. "Ready to go, partner?"

"Yeah, sure." His eyes met Mei-Lin's for a moment. There was definitely more to talk about, but it appeared she'd be around for a while. They would have to find a better time, with a little privacy.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

::Cue Theme Music::

**There once was a tale about a guy who could turn invisible. I thought it was only a story, until it happened to me. OK, so here's how it works: There's this stuff called 'Quicksilver' that can bend light. My brother and some scientists made it into a synthetic gland, and that's where I came in. See, I was facing life in prison and they were looking for a human experiment. So we made a deal; they put the gland in my brain, and I walk free. The operation was a success... but that's when everything started to go wrong.**

::Music Fade Out::

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act One

 

_Tracy Kidder once said, "The first step in fixing something is getting it to break." In the case of Golda, as my partner has dubbed our van, this was definitely the case. The Official had promised a complete overhaul, but it took a little disagreement with a gate to get things moving on that front._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"So you finally got the van moving again, huh?" Darien stood looking at the decrepit light brown van the pair used. The exterior had been repaired in a few minor ways, but the overall appearance was still nothing to inspire much confidence. Nothing hinted at the horsepower Darien knew had been crammed under her slightly bent hood.

"Yeah, if we hadn't already started reinforcing her, that little escapade might have finished her off. As it is, most of the damage was to stuff I was already gonna have to replace in the overhaul."

A large number of boxes of various sizes were scattered about the garage, a stack of shipping forms collected in a haphazard stack on the table next to an open toolbox. Darien pulled open one of the boxes, peering at the irregular plastic and protruding wires within. Hobbes slapped his hand away good-naturedly.

"Hands off, Fawkes. Our lives may depend on this gear, I don't want you dripping any Quicksilver and freezing it."

"Yeah, yeah. Y'know, this involuntary shooming sucks, but what sucks even more is how few times I actually get to  _do_  anything worth the inconvenience, if you know what I mean." He started fiddling with a wrench set left out on the workbench. "Spiders falling on me... that crazy Cuban lady... even with the gland switched off, you and Alex wouldn't even let me --" A look from Hobbes cut him off. He guiltily dropped the wrench too, but immediately began fiddling with some wires instead. "You know how long it's been since I...." He realized abruptly that he knew  _exactly_  how long it had been. "Crap... six months?" he murmured aloud.

Hobbes snorted. "That is definitely not need to know, my friend." He gestured at the boxes. "You think Golda was running like the Batmobile after her last overhaul, just wait until you see all the surprises I'm gonna be adding to her now!"

"Cool." Darien shrugged. "So are we gonna eat, or what?"

"Yeah, yeah. Come on, Mister Bottomless Pit." They climbed into the van and Darien noted that, whatever was working under the hood, the door on his side still creaked.

"So how'd the ultrasound go? Everything okay in there?" Hobbes asked casually.

"Yeah, so far. Keeper figured out why Mei-Lin was hurting and says things will be fine if she takes it easy for a few days. Couldn't see if it's a boy or a girl," he added as an afterthought.

Hobbes eyed Fawkes sideways as he took one of his habitual fast turns shedding imaginary tails. "You, uh, were spending a lot of time down there. I saw the way you two looked when I came in. Huh?" He grinned slyly. "Is there something going on between you two?"

Darien sighed. Since everyone else knew, it was bound to get to Bobby sooner or later. "I'm not sure, Hobbes. It might be. I haven't seen her in six months...."

Bobby sat in the driver's seat, eyes on the road. Darien counted silently.  _One, two, three, four...._

"So, are you going to marry her?"

_Five_ , he thought to himself, before the exact question sank in. Darien snorted. "Marry her? Hobbes, I barely know her!"

"It's a little late to be thinking about that now, my friend." Hobbes was going into full lecture mode. "Where I come from, if you get a girl in a family way, you don't hide from your responsibilities. You know her in the biblical sense, you know her well enough."

"C'mon, man, it might not even be mine."

"I can't count how many times I've heard that line, partner. I'm disappointed in you."

"Yeah, well, in this case, apparently, it's true." Darien was surprised at the bitter note in his voice. At the time, he'd been  _happy_  to see Mei-Lin and Chen-Po together. He just hadn't allowed himself to think about what way they were going to be together, or just how soon.

"So? So maybe the Keeper does some tests and you're off the hook. And maybe not, in which case the question still stands, are you gonna do the right thing?"

"I'm not sure what the right thing is, Hobbes. I mean, what kind of father would I be? I'm sure as hell not ready for this."

"Nobody is ever ready, my friend. And I think you'll make a great father. You've gotten a lot more responsible in the past couple years. Even Kevin was impressed."

It took Darien a moment to realize Hobbes was talking about when Kevin's memories had been inhabiting his own skull, with a little help from the gland. He'd never actually gotten to see the phenomena from the outside, so he still had trouble believing he'd actually  _been_  Kevin. Still, a little part of him thrilled at praise from his big brother.

"I dunno, man... she had it all set, a fiancé, a life together, it'd still be nice to see that happen."

"Yeah, well, now it ain't gonna happen, and it's 'cos of something you did, isn't it? So that makes you even more responsible."

"Uh, there  _were_  two people involved there, Hobbes."

"Yeah, and one of them was you."

"Look, I don't know, okay? I don't know if Mei-Lin is gonna want to marry me, I don't know if I want to get married, I don't know if I'm ready to be a father, I don't know!"

They drove in silence for a few minutes, Hobbes pursing his lips in disapproval. Eventually, Darien recovered from his outburst and relaxed a bit.

"Still, you know, I guess it would be kinda cool...."

Hobbes grinned. His partner sounded so young, just then.

"How about you, Hobbes? I mean, if you and Vivian hadn't split up, would you have had kids?"

"Sure. I mean, back when we first got married, we were gonna have it all. The house with the white picket fence, 2.6 kids and a dog romping in the yard... That's one reason I got out of the military, so's I could settle down a little more. I mean, any kind of intelligence work, you're gonna travel, especially in my areas of expertise, but at least you usually get a steady home base and you get to go back to it more often."

"You still want that? Yeah, I know it's not gonna be with Viv, but do you still want that with someone, someday?"

"With all my heart, but I've come to realize it ain't gonna happen."

Hobbes' face was clouded now, his tone bitter. Darien was shocked. "Why not? You've always said you wanted to. You're still young, still popular with the ladies --"

"And still nuts." Bobby cut him off sharply. "I decided I wasn't gonna screw up anybody else's life, wasn't gonna put anyone else through what Viv had to put up with. Besides which, a lot of mental stuff is genetic, you know? Why would I want to bring a kid into this world who's going to have to go through what I went through?"

His words came so smoothly, Darien got the impression this was an argument Hobbes had gone through in his own mind often enough to have it memorized.

"Hobbes?" Darien asked casually. "Did you decide all this  _before_  finding out that Doc Barry was deliberately messing with your head?"

The van rolled to a stop in a space in the lot outside the mall, but Darien got the distinct impression that his partner would have pulled over without even realizing it. Either that or just come to a stop in the middle of the street.

"You're not nearly as messed up as you thought you were. Hell, you're not nearly as nutso as you were when we first got partnered! You've got a handle on it."

"Maybe. I gotta say, this new shrink is good. First non-military, non-intelligence psychiatrist I've seen, but she really knows her stuff. You know, she's talking about how all these meds deplete the water-soluble vitamins, orthomolecular medicine...."

"You're changing the subject." Darien climbed out of the van, stretching his long legs.

"....she's even got me under hypnosis, trying to track down memories I'm not dealing with."

"Hypnosis? Really?" The van doors slammed in unison, and the partners made their way inside.

"I told her there's no way Bobby Hobbes can be hypnotized, Bobby Hobbes is too smart for that, and she says actually, it's the smart people that make the best subjects. And wouldn't you know it, she's right!"

The conversation paused while they ordered from one of the fast food counters in the food court, picking up again as they carried their trays to an empty and relatively clean table.

"I got hypnotized at a party once."

"Really?"

"Yeah, stuck a pin right into my hand, didn't feel a thing. Had some really big guy hanging off of my arm, like I was a jungle gym."

"I'd never let some guy at a party do that to me, my friend. This doc is a trained professional."

"Yeah, well, there was this really hot chick...."

"Ah."

Darien shook his head. "And you're still trying to change the subject."

"Am not. This is the subject. Subjects change, they meander."

"Bull, alright? The subject is, does the fact that you're not really nuts anymore change your decision about having kids?"

Hobbes pursed his lips in thought. "Tell you the truth, kid, I think I'm gonna have to think about that one. Maybe I'll talk it over with Dr. Martin."

"So what was that you were saying about vitamins?"

"Orthomolecular medicine. She's explained it to me a couple times, last time it even made sense. I think I musta heard about it some time, 'cos I kinda remembered it once she said it."

"So what is it? Sounds complicated."

"Nah. Basically, when you're on a lot of drugs for a long period of time, it alters your metabolism, and you tend to get depleted of the water-soluble vitamins. And that can make a lot of problems a lot worse, even  _cause_  some psychiatric disturbances. Supplement the depleted vitamins in just the right amount, and it's a lot easier for your body to take care of the rest of the problems."

"Wow. You know, she must be good, you sounded like you actually understood that."

"Hey, I told you before, I'm smart."

"Yeah, I'd say you have a unique mind."

"Ha ha. I'm unique, just like everybody else."

Darien went to get some ketchup, and when he got back Hobbes was doodling something on one of the napkins, a distracted look on his face. To Darien, it looked like a crude sketch of a bunch of soap bubbles stuck together.

"Whatcha got there, partner?"

Hobbes looked startled. "You know, I have no idea." He peered at the sketch, shrugged, and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Show it to your shrink, maybe she'll have some Freudian interpretation."

"Freud's interpretations are always the same, Fawkes. Sex. Besides, he was a moron. He said that child sexual abuse never happened, that the victims were making it up because it was what they wanted to happen."

"I didn't know that."

"You see? Quotes aren't everything, my friend."

"'Stealing someone else's words frequently spares the embarrassment of eating your own.' Peter Anderson."

"'It is unbecoming for young men to utter maxims.'"

"Aristotle, I'm impressed."

"Come on, smartass, let's get this done so we can get back to work."

Darien couldn't resist rebutting, "I'd rather be a smartass than a dumbass."

 

 

"Where are we going?" Mei-Lin asked, leaning on the Keeper on one side and the wheeled pole her IV set was attached to on the other. She didn't really hurt much anymore, but the memory of the pain was there, and so was the extra weight she'd gained, so she wasn't as mobile as she usually was.

"Oh, I just thought you might appreciate a change of scenery. You know, you must be getting tired of staring at the same four walls all day."

"So now I can stare at a different set of four walls? Good, I've already memorized all the cracks in the walls of your Lab Three."

"Well, there's a little more to look at than just the walls...." Claire slid her card through the scanner next to the door, and it hissed open smoothly, revealing a comfortable bed, the head raised so she could sit reclined instead of lying flat. It also revealed an assortment of wrapped packages and unwrapped larger baby gear with bows on them, and a grinning Alex.

"Surprise!" the two women cheered.

Mei-Lin took in the crib, stroller, changing table. "What is all of this?"

"It's a tradition in America," Claire explained. "It's called a baby shower."

"A... shower?" Mei-Lin climbed onto the bed with only a little assistance. She wasn't far enough along yet to need a footstool or a lift, but she could tell it was coming from the slight extra effort it took to get herself up there. Or perhaps that was just the lingering ache from the minor abruption.

"When a woman is expecting a baby," Alex filled in, "her female friends and relatives get together and give her a bunch of the things she's going to need for it. They have a party to celebrate."

Claire pulled out a small cake with white frosting reading CONGRATULATIONS MEI-LIN. The 'congratulations' was squeezed tightly together in order to fit, but the 'Mei-Lin' was legible.

"No champagne, of course, but we have a little sparkling grape juice."

The soon-to-be mother was still looking over at the collection of equipment. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Claire bubbled. "Here, let me get you something to unwrap."

Alex put a hand on Mei-Lin's shoulder. "It makes it more real, doesn't it?" At Mei-Lin's puzzled look, Alex gestured at the small mountain of baby gear. "Seeing all that, and knowing it isn't even everything you'll need. It just kinda hits you, right here," she said, touching her own chest lightly with her free hand, "just how big a job you've gotten yourself into."

Mei-Lin saw the wistful but happy look on Alex's face and came to the obvious conclusion. "You have children?"

Wistful took over, mixed with anger and loss. "One. A son, James." She caught Mei-Lin's look and explained her own. "He was kidnapped just after he was born. I've only seen him once since."

"How terrible!" Mei-Lin shuddered. There were so many dangers, so many fearful things that could happen to the small, helpless life inside of her, and it was going to be her job to guard against all of them.

Alex shook herself out of her mood; this was supposed to be a happy day for Mei-Lin, and besides, Claire was back with a package wrapped in fuzzy ducklings, a bit taken aback by the gloom she found. "They're only interested in children conceived in their fertility clinics, so that's one thing you won't have to worry about, okay?"

Claire pressed the package into Mei-Lin's hands, her own grin becoming less forced as the guest of honor began unwrapping it. Inside was little set of pajamas, complete with booted feet and a cartoon of Tigger on the front.

"They seem so small!" Mei-Lin blushed. "I have always been more interested in my projects than in holding other womens' babies." She was starting to look overwhelmed again.

"Which brings us to this," Alex filled in smoothly, holding up a package precisely wrapped in paper decorated with baby rattles and bottles. A heavier package, Mei-Lin rested it gently on the top of her stomach while she unwrapped it. Inside were a collection of books, including 'What to Expect When You're Expecting' and 'The Girlfriends' Guide to Pregnancy and Childbirth.' Alex pulled out the latter, showing the cover to Claire before placing it in Mei-Lin's hands. "This one is especially good. Trust me, there's stuff in there your doctor's not going to tell you."

"Hey!" Claire exclaimed teasingly.

"No offense, Claire, but unless you've actually pushed a small watermelon out of your body...."

"I wasn't planning to any time soon...."

"I am." Mei-Lin's rueful grin broke any lingering tension, and Alex brought out the sparkling grape juice for a toast.

It didn't take long to open the rest of the packages, and soon the floor was littered with bits of cutesy paper and the counters were filled with the smaller presents.

Alex refilled their glasses while Claire carved a generous piece out of the small cake and offered it up on a little party-size paper plate. "Who wants chocolate?"

"I do! I do!" a voice said out of thin air, and the plate lifted out of her hand seemingly on its own.

"Darien!" she exclaimed, scandalized. "What do you think you're doing here?"

Quicksilver flakes fell away, not just from the lanky figure now digging into the cake, but from shorter figures to either side of him as well, revealing a smug Hobbes and a slightly nervous Eberts.

"We're crashing your party, that's what," Hobbes explained unnecessarily, relieving Claire of the cake and slicing the remainder into five more pieces.

"You know," Darien said around a mouthful of cake, "I'm hurt that you didn't invite us."

"Baby showers are traditionally, well...." Claire trailed off.

"Women only," Alex finished brusquely. "You know, the ones who actually have the babies?"

"Well, gosh, Monroe, should I expect to see you in the craft shop instead of the firing range, then?" Hobbes asked. "Guns are traditionally a guy thing."

Alex was starting to get angry, but Claire's laughter brought her back to her senses. The corner of her mouth twisted from a snarl into a rueful smile. "All right, you caught us. It was sexist, and I apologize."

"Thank you!" Hobbes handed her a slice of cake with a little bow.

"Fortunately," Eberts chimed in, "I overheard your planning and was able to alert the rest of the staff in time for us to obtain suitable items for the occasion."

"Yeah, Ebes tipped us off, and we hit the mall at lunch." Darien pulled a small package from the counter; he'd carried it in Quicksilvered, and no one had noticed it when everyone appeared at once.

Feeling the package, Mei-Lin speculated on what could be in it. "Hmm, a box full of vials of Quicksilver, for smuggling the baby into restaurants and onto planes?"

"Your own set of lock picks," offered Alex, "for when the little tyke locks the bathroom door from the inside?"

"Or maybe a pint-sized set of climbing gear?"

The paper came away to reveal a box decorated like a house, with little windows showing a teddy bear inside, looking back out. She opened the box and pulled out a custom-made teddy bear, revealing the extra-long fuzz on the top of its head and an orange vest and bell-bottomed pants.

When the outburst of laughter had died down, Hobbes brought out a package of his own. In it were books of nursery rhymes, Grimm's fairy tales and the like, including a collection of English translations of Chinese children's stories.

"I figure the kid won't be able to read yet, but you can always read aloud. They say you can do that even, you know, in the womb, and they can hear you."

"Bobby, that's so sweet!" Claire exclaimed. Darien, behind Claire using Quicksilver to chill the bottle of sparkling grape juice, gave Hobbes a you-scored-points-there grin.

"How about you, Eberts?" Alex asked sweetly. The teddy bear had passed around the room and she was now holding it bemusedly.

Eberts very formally handed over an envelope. Mei-Lin opened the card inside to find a gift certificate.

"It's for a diaper service. They deliver your choice of cloth or disposable diapers on a regular schedule, with pickup for laundry or disposal as appropriate. They even provide the, ah, diaper pail."

Darien reached over and turned the certificate so he could see. "Hey, yeah, these guys had a booth at the mall. It's a nationwide chain, isn't it?"

"That is correct. Even if you travel, you can have service in over two hundred different cities."

Hobbes inspected the certificate suspiciously. "Sounds like a good way for someone to keep track of everywhere you go, to me."

Eberts' face fell. "I hadn't thought of that."

"It's alright, Eberts," Monroe put in. "I don't see any name on the gift certificate, they can always sign up under an alias if they want to stay anonymous."

"'They' being Mei-Lin and...." Hobbes left the sentence hanging, fishing for some sort of sign who Mei-Lin would like to fill in that blank with, but Alex filled it in for him.

"'They' being Mei-Lin and the baby." She rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Hobbes."

"What? I'm just trying to be realistic here. The MSS aren't going to be happy when they figure out that backpack isn't working and the Quicksilver is no good. They're gonna figure, we reneged, so can they. And then they're gonna come after Mei-Lin, and the baby, and anyone else they can use as leverage."

Darien tugged on Bobby's sleeve, speaking softly into his ear. "Could you take it down a notch, there, partner? This is supposed to be a party. You know, a happy fun time?"

Hobbes looked ready to argue, then caught himself, took a deep breath, and visibly relaxed. "You're right, partner." He glanced at Mei-Lin. "Sorry," then he muttered, quietly enough, Darien hoped, that none of the others heard, "Plenty of time to worry about that after the party."

"I must say," Eberts piped up, filling the awkward gap, "I am impressed with how many accouterments of infant care you were able to assemble on such short...." He trailed off, then turned to look at Alex accusingly. "I recognize some of these! They're the things we bought for taking care of Miss Monroe's son during his stay here!"

"Stealing office supplies, Alex?" Darien asked with a cocky grin.

"Eberts, calm down." Alex's tone was still friendly, although a shadow had reappeared in her eyes at mention of her son. "James will be... he must be... getting too big for all this now."

"You're not going to rat us out, are you, Ebes?" Darien asked.

"Well...." He saw in his colleagues' faces, not the distrust of the boss's lackey that he used to see, but the hope of friends that another friend would do them an important favor. "If you can supply a small sum to purchase the equipment second-hand, I believe I can convince the Official that it was a prudent move to liquidate these assets."

"Alright, my man, Ebes!" Darien cheered. Alex smiled her best thank-you smile and watched a faint flush creep up from Eberts' collar. Claire handed him a specimen cup of freshly chilled sparkling white grape juice. As she passed it over, the little paper party plate in her other hand bent right next to her thumb, dumping what was left of her slice of cake straight onto her blouse.

"Bloody hell," she muttered, grabbing the last unused paper towel to blot at the frosting. "Any more of these?" she asked as the little square almost disintegrated with its first real use.

"Here," Hobbes replied, holding out the napkin he'd stuffed in his pocket at lunch. Claire took it from him, then froze with the napkin midair. She turned it to get a better look at the design there, her spilled cake forgotten.

"Bobby, where did you get this?"

"At the food court at the mall."

"No, I mean the drawing."

"What, that? That's just a doodle. Go ahead and use it, I don't care."

But the Keeper was still studying the complex little doodle intently. "Bobby, I need to check something in my lab, and I may need a hand with it. If you'll excuse us for a little while?" She didn't wait for a reply, from Hobbes or the remainder of the party. Hobbes shrugged and followed her.

"Oh, sure, you two run along!" Darien called after them. "And play doctor," he added quietly, giggling, as the door closed.

When Hobbes caught up, Claire was already seated at one of her two computer terminals, typing and clicking rapidly, the napkin sitting on the counter beside her.

"So what's up, Keepy? You said you needed my help with something...."

"Take a look at this," Claire said as she finished typing and clicked one last time. An image began to fill the screen, of what looked to Bobby like a clump of soap bubbles of various colors and sizes. He glanced back at the napkin, puzzled.

"What is it?"

"It's one of the hormones the Quicksilver gland secretes. This is an electron-orbit model." She hit a button and the image changed to a bunch of tinker toys, smaller balls held together by sticks at varying angles. "And this is the more conventional view." She shifted back to the original image. "Bobby, how did that end up on your napkin?"

"What, you think I'm spying on you? Fat chance. Darien saw me draw that at lunch, you can ask him."

"I'm not accusing you of anything, Bobby. I just wanted to know how a model... a very accurate model, by the looks of things," she commented, comparing the drawing to the image on the screen, "got onto this napkin." She looked up from her comparison. "You drew this from memory?"

"I wasn't trying to draw anything, Keep, I swear, I was just doodling." He picked up the napkin again, contemplating it.

"You must have caught a glimpse of the image on my screen some time while you were down here. Perhaps your subconscious stored the image? There are a few mistakes, here and there, but it's truly remarkably accurate."

Hobbes' brow was creased in thought. He suddenly snapped his fingers. "I got it!" He had Claire's attention now. "My new shrink, Dr. Martin. She's been trying to help me get at buried memories, I'll bet this is 'cos of that!"

"Buried memories?"

"Yeah." Hobbes got quieter, still embarrassed to be talking about his psychological therapy even after the recent investigation into his past had revealed most of his history. "Um, she says that there's probably an element of post-traumatic stress disorder, given my history."

"Bobby!" Claire turned, worried. "You're not discussing your history with a psychiatrist who hasn't been cleared yet, are you?"

"Don't worry, Keep," he said with a slightly hurt expression, "nothing classified, no restricted info. She said there's a lot we can do working on just the stuff that's cleared for civilians, until her clearance comes through. She's even letting me tape the hypnosis sessions, so I can make sure she doesn't wind up getting too close to anything."

"Hypnosis?" Claire asked, glancing again at the molecular structure on screen. "Well, if she's using hypnosis to recover repressed memories, that could very well explain this. You saw the image on the screen at some point, and it's stayed in your head, in your subconscious. She brought it more to the fore, and then it drifted the rest of the way up far enough for you to start drawing it."

Hobbes shrugged. "I guess so." Squinting at the napkin, he muttered, "You know, I see what you mean about the two of them being a little different." He looked from the computer screen to the napkin and back. He couldn't shake the feeling that it was the computer screen that had it wrong.

"Keep me updated on how this is working for you, Bobby. Perhaps once Dr. Martin's clearance is approved...." She trailed off.

"What, you, uh, you looking for a good shrink?" Bobby's puzzlement was flattering. "Keep, you're the most together person in this crummy Agency!"

"Not for me, for Darien."

"Fawkes? What would Fawkes need to see a shrink for? He got all his insanity out of his system before you cured him."

"He still has nightmares, though. It's been over two years, and he's still reliving his brother's death on a regular basis." She frowned. "Post-traumatic stress can be insidious."

"Fawkes is never gonna go see a shrink, Keepy, no way, no how."

"Probably not," Claire agreed, "but he's finally gotten comfortable enough with me to talk about his dreams. Between Darien and Tommy Walker, I've had to do far too much psychiatry. It's not something I'm trained for, and it would be nice to be able to get some outside advice every now and then."

"I hadn't thought about that. Sure, Claire, once she's cleared to know about the whole thing, I'll ask her to get in touch with you." Hobbes was looking at the screen and the napkin again, trying to pin down a thought flickering in the back of his mind. But the more he reached for it, the more it slipped away. Leaving the napkin on the counter, he slipped out and headed back down the hall to check on the party, worries about his partner crowding out the evanescent memory.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hobbes reluctantly watched the Keeper, Mei-Lin, and their escort departing in a pair of creaky but unremarkable Agency sedans. Their guest was in the second car, the only one in the pool with tinted windows to keep observers from seeing inside the back seat. He didn't like their moving out of the security of the Harding building, no matter how many guards they took with them, but at least they were protected by someone. If the Chinese, or anyone else interested in that backpack, went after them, they'd have a fighting chance.

Fawkes' blue Crown-Victoria pulled out behind them, turning in the other direction from the Agency parking area. Hobbes waited a moment, then pulled out after him.

"The Doc would kick my ass if she knew I was following someone home," he muttered to himself. "Don't matter. Bobby Hobbes gets a feeling someone he cares about is in danger, he's not just gonna sit on his ass and wait for it to happen." It had been ages since he'd allowed himself so much as a phone call to check on Viv; he was certain it wasn't just paranoia flaring up again.

Sure enough, Hobbes spotted another vehicle keeping pace with Fawkes a little ahead of the car Bobby was using instead of the all-too-recognizable van. He carefully dropped back a bit, putting even more distance between himself and his partner; he'd trained Fawkes how to spot, and shake, a tail, and sooner or later Fawkes would do just that, and Hobbes could follow the other car back to its lair.

"Oh, this guy's good," Bobby observed, watching the way the car used traffic for interference without ever completely losing sight of Darien's vehicle. "He's good, but you're better, Fawkes. Come on, partner, spot the tail...."

Darien's car made a fast, unsignaled turn. The other car was in the wrong lane, but managed to shift over just in time to follow. Bobby, with more lead-time, was much less conspicuous pulling the same maneuver, far enough behind him to avoid suspicion.

The Fawkesmobile was nowhere in sight. He'd made another fast turn, right or left, and the other car would have to choose on the fly. It chose right. Bobby continued straight for another block, then turned right onto a side street and nosed towards the end. Sure enough, he could just see the other car paused at the intersection, trying to spot which way Fawkes had gone, and clearly having little luck.

"Attaboy, Fawkes."

The car turned left, towards Bobby's position, and he held his place; his street had a stop sign, giving him a perfectly plausible reason to be stopped, waiting for the other car to pass before pulling out himself. Hobbes had an excellent view of the driver of the car as he went past.

"Well, well, well. Mister Chen-Po Li . And just what's your interest in my partner?"

Bobby had hid his face as Li drove by, tossing his head far back pretending to drink from a now-empty paper coffee cup, but apparently the ruse was unsuccessful. Li rolled to a stop just past the intersection, then slowly backed up. Hobbes shrugged. "You want to talk? Okay, Chen-Po, we can talk...." He got out of his car and strode over to meet the former MSS agent.

"Well, now, fancy meeting you here."

"Agent Hobbes." Li nodded his head in greeting.

"Mind telling me what you're doing, tailing my partner?"

"It is... personal."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Well, lemme tell you, somebody coming after my partner, I take that  _real_  personal."

Neither man made any threatening moves. No hands drifting to their guns, no shifting of weight into an attack stance. They were both too good to need any such posturing, and they both knew that about each other, too.

"I assure you, I am not 'coming after' Agent Fawkes."

"Yeah? So, you want something from Fawkes, why don't you just ask him? Doing a little recon for the MSS?"

Chen-Po waved his hand dismissively. "I have not had contact with the MSS since we parted ways six months ago."

"Come on, Li." Hobbes gestured at the quiet side street around them. "Are we gonna have to kick each others' asses again before you'll level with me?"

Bobby could see it in Chen-Po's eyes when he decided to trust him, in the subtle change in posture, a relaxing of guard. He didn't mirror that change, not yet. He was pretty sure what this was about, had been from the moment he saw Li, but what he didn't know, yet, was how Li was taking it.

"I am looking for Mei-Lin," Li explained awkwardly.

"By tailing my partner?"

He shrugged. "She has been gone too long, she must have gone somewhere. I have... reason to believe she might seek out Agent Fawkes. She was not at his apartment, so I thought perhaps he would lead me to her."

"C'mon, Chen-Po, I thought you were supposed to be a top-notch agent, that's the best you can do?"

Bobby had meant his story, but Li took it to mean his tactics. "I am no longer an agent, Mr. Hobbes. I am cut off from the resources I made use of last time to trace where she had disappeared to. Fawkes is my only lead."

"Don't you mean your only rival?" Hobbes drawled.

Li froze, eyes narrowed.

"You see, I think you're after more than Mei-Lin. I think you're after avenging that precious honor you were so eager to fight over last time."

Something in Li's face crumpled, even though is expression hadn't changed. "So she did come to him."

Hobbes made a buzzing noise. "Bzzt! Wrong answer."

"Oh, really? Then where is she?"

"Oh, she's with us. Her and the little munchkin-on-the-way both. But she didn't come to Fawkes."

"Then how...?"

Hobbes finally took pity on the other agent and explained. "The MSS, my friend. While you were off nursing your wounded pride, the MSS came in and snatched her." Hobbes watched Chen-Po's reaction. It seemed to be genuine horror, and Hobbes had been at this long enough that he was pretty damn good at reading people.

"I thought she had left, like last time!" He shook his head. "But she is safe now? She's alright?"

"Yeah, she's fine, no thanks to you. Plenty pissed at you for walking out, and who can blame her?" Actually, Hobbes wasn't certain how Mei-Lin felt; it was a tactic.

Chen-Po Li paced the lonely intersection, clearly upset. "I did not intend to walk out on her for good. I only needed some time to think, about what she had told me. But when I came back, she had gone. I assumed she had left me, just as she had before." The way he looked at Hobbes could almost be described as pleading, quite an emotional display coming from the reserved former agent. "I have to talk to her. I have to find out her intentions. Agent Hobbes --"

"You want me to take you to her?"

"I would be most --"

"Fat chance!" He glared at Chen-Po. "I don't know what the young lady's intentions are either, but they might just involve my partner, and I am not gonna let you just waltz in and stick your nose in it. If Mei-Lin wants to talk to you, then maybe we can work something out, but in the meantime,  _you_  are going to steer clear, you got me?"

Chen-Po looked ready to protest, but thought better of it.

"That means no hanging around the Agency, no tailing anyone, no trying to get in anybody's apartment!"

The Chinese man sighed. "Agreed. If you will speak to Mei-Lin, I will try to be patient." Hobbes noted a slight emphasis on the 'if' in that statement.

"You better do more than try, Mr. Chen-Po Li, or who's the daddy ain't gonna be an issue any more, if you get what I mean."

With that, Hobbes stalked back to his car and sat down for a couple minutes, thinking. He watched Chen-Po pull away. He considered tailing him, considered just going to Darien's apartment and checking whether Li or any other MSS types were around, but decided that, despite ostensibly being on opposite sides when they met, he liked Chen-Po. He respected him. He didn't exactly trust him, but he doubted Li would do anything too obvious to jeopardize their agreement.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Two

 

Hobbes was waiting for Darien when he came in the next morning.

"Hey there, partner."

"Hey, Bobby." Darien handed Hobbes a coffee, which he took but didn't drink yet.

"You have a good night? You sleepin' any better?"

"Yeah, actually, slept pretty well. No nightmares."

Hobbes drew a breath to start giving Fawkes a good, long lecture, but was interrupted by Fawkes casually holding out a piece of paper.

"What's this?"

"Oh, somebody was tailing me last night. I gave them the slip, but, uh, not before getting the license number of the lead car." Darien handed over the paper, looking pleased with himself, and gave Hobbes a description of the car.

"Uh huh." Hobbes looked at the paper long enough to note it was the same number he'd seen, then stuffed it in his pocket. "And you lost him."

"Just like you taught me."

"And did you try to pick up his trail, tail him back to wherever he came from?"

"Uh, no. He already knew what my car looked like, I figured he'd spot it following him too easy."

"And did you call for back-up? Did you call  _me_  and let me know you'd been followed?"

"C'mon, Hobbes, I ditched him. What were you gonna do, start going up and down alleys?"

Hobbes rounded on his partner. "What I would do, partner, is come along with you to your apartment, in case someone was there waiting for you. Did you even check for signs anyone had tried to break in?"

"I didn't see any," Darien said defensively.

"Didn't see any," Hobbes growled. "You ain't gonna see what you're not looking for, Fawkes. And you  _should_  have been looking for it. Somebody's after you, that apartment of yours isn't exactly hard to find, or hard to break into."

"Relax, Hobbes, there was nobody there."

"You passed that freakin' exam, you're supposed to know better by now. Why do you think I've been training you, Fawkes? You think it's for my health? It's so I can know you're safe! So I don't have to worry about covering your skinny punk ass all the time. Have I been wasting my time?"

Hobbes' voice had risen to a shout, and a couple of doors cracked open as the Agency personnel inside gawked.

Darien, surprised by the force of the outburst and feeling sheepish for expecting praise for spotting and losing his tail, tried to calm Bobby down.

"Hobbes, I'm sorry, okay? But it's a little late now to be trying to find the guy. Next time I'll call you, I promise."

"You'd better. You call me the minute you spot the tail, we might have a chance at catching him before he disappears on you."

"I will, I will!"

"Good." Hobbes took a deep breath and got himself calmed down. Then he spotted a pair of eyes peeping from inside a nearby office. "What are you looking at?" he shouted, his hand actually reaching for his gun as the door hurriedly closed. Darien's hand went around Hobbes' wrist to stop him from drawing.

"Bobby!" Darien hissed. Hobbes looked pointedly down at Fawkes' hand until he let go, then slapped his partner's back and started down the hall as if nothing had happened. After a moment Darien followed.

"So, you think about what we were discussing in the van? You gonna marry her?"

Fawkes rolled his eyes. "Hobbes, I told you, I don't know."

"Yeah, but you've had time to think about it since then."

"Look, maybe, okay, Hobbes? If it's my baby, and Chen-Po's out of the picture...."

"Won't that be Mei-Lin's call?" a female voice asked sweetly from behind them. Alex Monroe was following, steps in synch with theirs. She draped one arm over each fellow Agent's shoulders. "Isn't this sweet? You boys are going to decide who Mei-Lin is going to marry?"

"Uh, not exactly...."

"Damn right, not exactly, Fawkes. Because it  _is_  going to be Mei-Lin's call, whether she wants you in her life or not."

"Actually, legally speaking...." Fawkes trailed off as Alex glared. "Never mind."

Alex pushed between them and stalked off down the hall.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When Darien arrived at what he now thought of as Mei-Lin's lab, Claire was already in the midst of preparations for the amniocentesis. Mei-Lin lay on the hospital bed, her abdomen exposed, and Claire was assembling some equipment on a tray. He paused in the doorway until he caught Mei-Lin's eye and gave her a questioning look. She hesitated a moment, then nodded, and Darien came in quietly to stand beside her.

"How you doing?" He reached out and brushed her hair back gently.

"Nervous," she admitted. "I keep thinking, what if something happens? What if the tests show something  _is_  wrong?"

"Hey, at least this way you'll know, right? And I'm, I'm sure it's nothing. That everything's going to be fine."

"You are not a very good liar, Fawkes." Mei-Lin smiled. "But we can be worried together."

By the time the Keeper was ready, Darien was settled in a chair at Mei-Lin's shoulder, quietly cracking jokes to distract her. Right now, he was making suggestions for names, each more outrageous than the last. He'd just reached 'Hortence' when Claire announced she was ready.

"All right, Mei-Lin?" Her patient nodded. "This will be just like we discussed. I'll use the ultrasound to find a place I can insert the needle without getting too close to the fetus or the placenta or cord, then I'll pass this needle through your abdominal wall."

"Damn!" Darien exclaimed, "that's a long needle!" Claire glared at him and he flushed, quickly trying to cover his lapse. "Um, but it's really thin, too." He looked from the needle and its displeased wielder to Mei-Lin. "You should've seen how big around some of the needles she's used on me were. That, that's nothing."

Claire sighed and continued. "Some people prefer a local anesthetic, but the truth is, that involves another needle, and lidocaine stings like mad, whereas this is only the one prick, albeit a bigger one. You'll feel it the most when it first goes through the skin, after that it's just sort of there. You can feel it move around a little but it won't really hurt when it does so."

Claire squirted conducting gel onto Mei-Lin's abdomen and began the process of determining where baby, cord, placenta, and fluid pockets were. She found the small abruption and confirmed that it was healing, that there was no sign of fresh bleeding. Following the placenta around, she traced the umbilical cord as it twisted through the amniotic sac and hooked up to the baby floating within. A little hand, all five fingers visible, opened and closed. The mouth moved as the fetus swallowed some amniotic fluid. Darien was fascinated. He kept wanting to tell her to go back, not to move away from such a cool sight, but he held his tongue, knowing that the doctor needed to concentrate.

Finally satisfied with her positioning, Claire prepped a site with antiseptic and inserted the long needle. Mei-Lin gave a little gasp as the beveled tip pierced her skin, and her hand reached out to find and hold on to Darien's. It was weird; Darien thought it was rather like their other encounter, six months ago. Mei-Lin needed someone, and Darien was there and willing, but he realized sadly that any supportive, sympathetic hand probably would have done just as well for her. He was so distracted by this thought that for a moment he lost track of what was happening on the ultrasound monitor.

Eventually Claire was finished, and once the needle was withdrawn Mei-Lin relaxed her hold on Darien's hand. Relaxed, but did not release. She looked up into his contemplative face and murmured, "Thank you."

"Hey, any time. I mean that." He gave her hand a little squeeze before releasing it. Maybe this was the best way for them. Darien would be there for her as a friend, would support her emotionally, whether it went any further than that or not.

Then Darien, watching Claire wipe the conducting gel off of Mei-Lin's exposed abdomen, felt a little trickle of Quicksilver trying to escape his control, and decided maybe there  _was_  a chance at something more, there, after all.

Checking that Mei-Lin was alright, Darien offered to help the Keeper with her samples and equipment. He tagged along with her to the Keep, still mostly lost in thought. She took the tray from him and began doing whatever it was she had to do with the sample.

"Hey, so, uh, how long will it take you to know?"

"Well, there are a lot of tests I'll need to run, some of them I'll have to send to outside labs. I can put a rush on them, but it could be up to two weeks before everything is in."

"Two weeks?" Darien fidgeted a moment before blurting out, "I gotta wait two weeks to find out if the baby's mine?"

Claire looked mildly disappointed. "No, actually, that part of the testing will be done in about three days."

Darien shrugged, hands in his back pockets, looking down at his feet as the toe of one shoe traced arcs across the floor. "Guess it seems kinda selfish, worrying about that when Mei-Lin is so worried about whether her baby is okay. I should.... I should be worried about it too, shouldn't I?" He looked up at her then with a lost look in his eyes, seeming far younger than the swaggering scoundrel he tried to be.

Claire's own look softened in return.

"Well, Mei-Lin knows the baby is hers. It's easier for her to get emotionally invested in it."

"Yeah, I guess that makes sense...." He wandered over to the exam chair he used to receive his counteragent shots in and slouched against it. "Just makes me feel like my priorities are all messed up, y'know?"

"It's not that you don't care at all, is it? You just care about it like a friend's baby, rather than your own."

"Right, which it might, or might not, be." He ran his fingers through hair that was starting to droop, trying to get it stand upright properly. "Sometimes, I feel like, I dunno, like maybe I do want to start a family, become a regular, responsible guy. And other times, it's like I don't want anything to do with 'em, like I just want Chen-Po to come back and marry her and make the whole thing go away."

"Ambivalence is perfectly normal, Darien. It's nothing to feel guilty about. Even expectant mothers have days when they want to take it back, when they feel like they're not ready."

Claire had been moving about the Keep, doing unknown things to various bits of equipment and sample containers. Now she came back over to Darien, ripping open a plastic package and removing what looked sort of like a long Q-tip.

"I need you to open your mouth wide and hold your tongue out of the way to one side." She reached up towards his face with the swab and he caught her wrist and pushed it away.

"Wait, wait, what is this?"

"I need a sample for comparison." Darien had clearly forgotten her mention of it earlier. "With the DNA collected in the amniocentesis, Darien. I thought you wanted to know if you were the father?"

Darien replied by opening his mouth wide as instructed. Claire rubbed the swab against the inside of his cheek, then pushed it into a plastic container and labeled it.

"So that's it? No needles?"

"No needles. Just epithelials."

"Sorry, epi-what?"

"Epithelial cells," came a voice from the doorway. Hobbes strolled into the room, taking in the test kit and the container Claire still held. He spotted the box of test kits on the counter and picked one up. "Gonna get an answer to the question of the day, partner?"

"Yeah, except it'll be the answer of three days from now."

"Maybe I should keep a couple of these in the van, just in case. Could use a little DNA evidence now and then." Hobbes stuck a pair of the kits into his jacket pocket. Claire glanced at Darien.

"Do you want me to show you how to use that, Bobby?"

"Oh, I already know how to use them," Hobbes replied. "Keep the sterile portions from touching anything but the sample area, swab the buccal membranes, avoiding contact with the tongue, and return the swab to the sterile container for PCR enhancement and restriction-enzyme fragment length polymorphism analysis."

Claire's mouth hung open until Darien reached over and closed it.

"Hobbes, have you been getting into the Nobel DNA again?"

"Huh?" Hobbes looked up at them for the first time since rattling off the instructions. His eyes widened as he realized what he'd said, but he shrugged it off. "Hey, I've had some training, you know. So I remembered the big words this time; I told you before I'm smart, didn't I?"

"Yeah, Bobby, just not usually so... verbose about it. At least not about the scientific aspects."

"So, you can run this test just with Darien and baby, you don't need DNA from Chen-Po Li for comparison, too?"

"Well, I'll also run a sample from Mei-Lin. Half the baby's DNA is from her, so anything on its sample that doesn't match hers, has to be from the father. Ideally, we'd have samples from both, ah, candidates, but as we don't  _have_  a sample from Chen-Po, I can still run the analysis on the samples we do have and come up with a reasonably accurate answer."

Hobbes nodded. "But it would be most accurate with a sample from him. So can we get one? Have Mei-Lin give Chen-Po a call, ask him to make a little donation?"

"He walked out on her, Hobbes." Fawkes replied, a little too quickly. "If she doesn't feel like talking to him, I'm not gonna push her into it."

"There's a phone in her room, Bobby. I've told the switchboard to get her an outside line if she wants it."

"No, you're right. She shouldn't have to talk to him if she doesn't want to. Probably just as well she's staying with us, then. Catch you later, partner. Keep." Hobbes wandered back out the open door to the Keep.

"Well that was strange." Darien observed.

"Yes," Claire agreed. She went over to her computer and pulled open a drawer nearby, taking out the napkin with its doodle of Quicksilver molecules. "Very strange...." she murmured.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hobbes tailed Darien all the way home without incident. Fawkes was taking a different route than usual, with more turns, most of which he took at the last second without signaling first. Hobbes was reassured his younger partner was at least taking the situation seriously. He waited until he saw the lights come on in Darien's apartment. He wanted to go up and check for signs of break-in himself, but knew Fawkes wouldn't understand.

His partner safe, Hobbes headed towards a pre-arranged meeting. Balboa Park, past the fountains and museums, over near the zoo but away from the entrance, where the loudspeakers from one of the animal acts inside could be heard quite clearly even though the action was out of sight. Hobbes arrived early and spent the extra time scoping out the area.

Chen-Po showed up on time, looking anxious. "How is Mei-Lin?" he asked before he'd even closed the distance between them. Hobbes had to give him credit, his first concern was her well-being.

"She's fine. Our doc did an amniocentesis, trying to clear up those funky test results she had."

Li frowned. "She was very nervous about that. I wish I could have been there...."

"Don't worry, Fawkes was there to hold her hand." Hobbes felt a little thrill at hitting home with that one, but seeing the look on Chen-Po's face made him think twice. "I'm sorry, that was hostile."

"No...." Chen-Po paced a few yards down the path and back. "No, if she had to go through that without me, then I'm glad there was someone with her. Someone who... cares about her."

"Yeah, well, Fawkes, he's a real caring guy."

"And the baby? Everything is alright?"

"Yeah, about that baby...." Hobbes pulled out one of the DNA sample kits. Chen-Po raised an eyebrow, reading the label. "Seems to me we got a question here whose answer might be kinda important. Maybe Mei-Lin will want to know that answer before she makes any commitments."

Chen-Po allowed Agent Hobbes to collect a sample. "Was this at her request?" he asked after it was finished.

"Nope. No, this was my idea. Remember, I've got a partner to whom these results are gonna be pretty important, too."

Hobbes started to turn to go, but Chen-Po reached out and caught his upper arm. Hobbes jerked free angrily, his hand moving towards his gun before he got ahold of himself. He did allow himself to move back several steps. "Don't  _do_  that!"

"I'm sorry. Please, wait. I have to see Mei-Lin. I have to speak to her."

"If she wanted to talk to you she'd have called, now, wouldn't she?"

"Maybe."

"Test is gonna take three days. Might make her reconsider."

"I don't want to wait. Could you please ask her? If you ask her, and she says no, then I'll....no. That would be a lie. I will not go away, she's too important to me. But I would rather she agrees to see me, as soon as possible."

"Okay, Charlie Brown," Hobbes said, with a slight emphasis on the Brown part, which Chen-Po smiled ruefully at. "If she agrees to a meeting, I'll arrange it."

"Thank you."

Hobbes tailed Chen-Po, but didn't have far to go, as the former agent walked along the fence to the zoo entrance. He turned, catching sight of Hobbes and looking not at all surprised to see him.

"Nothing else I can do," he shrugged, pulling out a zoo membership pass. "If you're going to leave me waiting, I might as well find some way to keep myself occupied."

Hobbes grinned, remembering how much he liked the man. That didn't mean he'd trust him, and he still waited out of sight by the exit to make sure Chen-Po wasn't doubling back on him, but he still enjoyed the image of a kick-ass intelligence agent standing amongst screaming kiddies and watching the polar bears or penguins.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Back at the Keep, early the next morning, Claire was already intent on her computers. Hobbes strolled in through the open door.

"I could get used to this, Keepy. I mean, no card key, no locks to get in the way of dropping by for a visit...."

"Yes, well, I wanted Mei-Lin to be able to get ahold of me easily."

"Thought you were going back to your place again?"

"Well, I had something I was working on, and Mei-Lin was sleeping, so I figured why wake her? I caught a few hours sleep and got an early start."

"What about the guards? Did you send them home?"

"No, they're around. And so are you, which is unexpected but fortuitous."

Hobbes pulled out the DNA sample kit. "Gotcha a present, Keep. Chen-Po Li, for comparison in your gels there." He nodded towards a gel electrophoresis setup on the counter. "Is it too late to add another column?"

"No, actually." She took the kit from him and began working on it. "The other samples are still in the preparation stage. I can start them all at once." After a few minutes of fiddling, she left a beaker of liquid stirring with a magnet bar and returned to her computer.

She pulled up a now-familiar image, the electron-cloud image. Next to it was another image, similar but with a few atoms shifted around and modified. Hobbes realized that the second version was identical to his doodle on the napkin.

"I checked out your drawing, and it's a functional variation on the hormone. They're not just mistakes. The odds of accidentally coming up with a similar molecule that would do the same job are too small to even consider."

"Okay, so I must've seen that one instead. You got a lotta molecules on this thing, right?"

"No, because this is a new variation. I've only ever worked on two versions of this molecule." She called up another image. "This is the original version."

"Original?"

"Yes. Before it was modified by gene therapy." She waited for Bobby to put it together.

"Gene thera....You mean Arnaud's, you mean the cure Arnaud gave you?" Bobby whistled low. "So this first molecule is the cured version, and that last one is the one that caused Quicksilver madness?"

"Well, there are some other hormones that were also modified, but for this particular one, yes, that about sums it up."

"Wait, so what about this doodlely molecule here? You said it's functional, which kind is it? Cured or not cured?" He peered at it, suddenly certain. "This is a different cure, isn't it? This is something independent of what Arnaud did."

"As far as I can tell with computer modeling, this molecule doesn't trigger any of the Quicksilver madness effects. It would take a lot more work before I could determine whether it would be a successful substitute in vivo, but there's every indication it would be."

"So the question of the day is...."

"...how did that molecule end up in your doodle?"

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien entered Mei-Lin's lab. She was curled on her side, a pillow between her knees and another under her head. He stood watching her for a moment.

She was on her left side, her hair falling away behind her head instead of hanging in front of her face. She'd fallen asleep in her clothes, her shirt pulled up slightly to make room for the fetal monitor strapped to her abdomen, its monitor quietly blinking behind the bed. The scars on the right side of her face and arm were clearly visible. He wondered if she had rolled over in her sleep, or if she really was getting less self-conscious about them. The slight smile on her lips made him hope it was the latter.

That smile, the curve of her belly, the way her hand rested on her abdomen... she was a picture-perfect image of a woman with child. And the rest of her looked pretty damn perfect too. Darien felt that little tickle in the back of his brain that meant the Quicksilver gland was starting to react to his reacting to her, and reluctantly turned his thoughts in other directions.

That naturally led to the life inside her and his possible part in it. Darien tried to picture what that would be like. Holding a baby. Part of him was sure he would drop it, or break it accidentally, or something. Changing a baby.  _How the heck do you get those diapers to stay on? What happens if you can't figure out how to get it to stop crying?_

Enough of that.  _That's only part of the time, right?_  Darien pictured the times when the baby would be laughing, or smiling, or eating. Little airplane noises with little spoons coming in for a landing in little mouths. And later, teaching the kid to ride a bike, play basketball, drive a car. That would be cool, he decided.

Mei-Lin shifted, stretched, and opened her eyes. He waited to see how she would react to him standing in the doorway.

She smiled. Not a broad, sexy smile or anything like that. It was just that she was happier to see him than annoyed at being watched. Good enough.

"Morning. Sleep well?"

She looked at the clock in surprise. "It's morning?"

"Yeah. Guess you were pretty sound asleep, Keeper figured you might as well stay here."

"No wonder I feel so well-rested." Her stomach gurgled audibly. "And hungry."

"You, you want me to go out and get you something?"

Mei-Lin swung her feet off the bed and got to her feet. Darien went to help her, but she'd already finished by the time he took her arm. "Actually, Claire left some yogurt in that little refrigerator."

"Okay, yogurt, fridge. Uh, let me get it, so you don't have to, you know, bend over...."

Mei-Lin was crossing the room towards a side door.

"Where are you....oh." He turned back to the little fridge, discovering not only yogurt, but milk and some fruit and the ubiquitous leftover take-out Chinese food. "What is it with the Keeper and yogurt and Chinese food, anyway?" he muttered to himself. He grabbed the yogurt and an apple.

He'd eaten half the apple by the time Mei-Lin emerged from the bathroom. She'd cleaned up a little, changing into fresh clothes and brushing her hair. Darien had just taken a big bite, and he awkwardly tried to chew and swallow fast so he could talk, his cheeks bulging out and a trickle of juice running down his chin.

Mei-Lin laughed. "I'm sorry," she said, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser over the sink and handing it to him. Darien wiped his face and managed to swallow the mouthful without choking.

"The, uh, yogurt is over there by the bed."

Darien finished his apple while she ate, the silence somewhere between awkward and companionable. Mei-Lin had tucked her feet up under her thighs as she leaned sideways against the raised upper half of the hospital bed. Her hair was back to its usual curtain covering the scarred half of her face.

"So what have you been up to since, you know, defecting?"

"We found a town to live in, a lab for me to work in and a private security job for Chen-Po. The work is not nearly as challenging as it was back in China, nothing to match the work on invisibility, but it kept me occupied. I believe Chen-Po was also finding his work somewhat dissatisfying."

"That's, that's too bad. I mean, I'm kinda starting to enjoy my job. Don't tell the Fat Man, though."

"Why do you feel the need to hide that you enjoy your work?"

"I dunno, I've hated my job for so long, it's kinda become part of my personality. Besides, if word gets out I like my job, they might get the wrong idea, start thinking I like being stuck with this gland, which, by the way, I do  _not_."

"Of course, the side effect must be very uncomfortable."

"Uh, yeah. Hurts like hell." Darien had forgotten his earlier deception. While Mei-Lin had been among the MSS, it had seemed like a good idea. Now, he wasn't so certain. But now didn't seem like the right time to come clean. Kind of like it had never seemed like the right time with Casey. He promised himself he would talk to Hobbes or the Keeper about it. Later.

For now, he'd settle for changing the subject.

"Got any hobbies? Read any good books?"

"I enjoy poetry."

"Really? Like what?"

Mei-Lin recited something. Her deep yet breathy voice became stronger as she spoke, the syllables rhythmic, the words almost melodic. But it was in Chinese and Darien couldn't understand any of it.

"That was nice," Darien said. She looked disappointed, and he fumbled for something more decisive. "That was real nice."

"And what about you? You were playing billiards when I found you in that bar, is that still how you amuse yourself?"

"Uh, no. No, no, no." Darien shook his head. "I don't play billiards. I shoot pool. There is a world of difference between the two. Billiards is all rich and prissy and formal. Pool is done with style and attitude." He pantomimed sinking a few shots with an imaginary cue stick, twirling the cue and shooting behind his back with a little wiggle of his hips.

"You are still a very strange man, Fawkes."

"I try. But actually, that, that's normal. That's the way it's played, at least where I play."

The conversation petered out there. Darien fidgeted awkwardly, poking around the counters and cabinets. "You were a pretty good fighter, too. You still keeping up with the martial arts?"

"It is difficult to find an instructor here who is advanced enough to teach me anything. Besides, I am starting to get off-balance, and I can't exactly get into combat now, even sparring. It is not nearly as interesting to practice forms and strikes without that challenge, although it is necessary to keep in shape."

"Yeah? Well, uh, Bobby's been teaching me some stuff. You know, Wing Chun, Hapkido."

"A jack of all trades is master of none."

"You like quotes?" Darien asked, delighted at the thought of someone who shared his favorite pastime.

"Not particularly. It was just a phrase I'd heard that seemed appropriate."

"Oh."

Another awkward silence.

It was a relief when the door opened. Alex strode in, taking in the tableau in a glance.

"Sorry to interrupt your family bonding session, Fawkes, but Claire needs you in the Keep."

"Okay, uh," he nodded to Mei-Lin, "then I'll be back later, okay?"

"Take your time," she inclined her head in return, much more gracefully.

"Oh, and Fawkes? She wanted you to get a puzzle book, she says the one you were quizzing Hobbes from." Alex's tone made it clear she was skeptical of any puzzle Hobbes could solve.

"Quizzing Hobbes?" It took a moment to click. "Oh, crap." Suddenly Darien looked very worried. "I think it's in my desk drawer in the office." He hurried out.

"Everything okay in here?"

"Yes. I'm fine." Alex started to go. "Except I... could use some company."

The agent turned back, one eyebrow raised. "Fawkes wasn't enough company for you?"

"It was a bit awkward. It seems we do not have very much in common. But I find I am reluctant to be alone. I would appreciate it if you would stay with me for a while."

Alex remembered her own pregnancy, much of it spent alone, with no one to rely on but herself. Usually she liked her life like that, but there had been something about her condition that left her vulnerable to weepy moods. Hormones, perhaps. She supposed it must be worse for someone used to having a partner to support her, suddenly cut off from that support.

"Alright," Alex said, crossing the room to perch on the end of the bed, "what shall we talk about?"

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Three

 

_Pierre Corneille noted that, "The fire which seems extinguished often slumbers beneath the ashes." I was starting to worry that the smoldering embers in Hobbes' head were starting to flare up into another conflagration that would engulf his mind..._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien skidded through the open door to the Keep, puzzle book clutched in one hand. He found Claire and Hobbes at work at the newer of her computers, the screen showing a series of blobs of color. He moved closer until he was peering over their shoulders at models of molecules of a type he remembered vaguely from his short stay in college.

"No," Hobbes was saying, "None of these look familiar."

"Keep trying. It's a long shot, but if there's one, there's a chance there's more."

"What's up, Claire?" Darien watched the pair jump as he spoke just behind them. He didn't try to sneak up on people; it was just that his walk was naturally quiet, made even more so by his years as a sneak thief. Still, the result was often amusing.

"Darien! Just who I wanted to speak to." She steered Fawkes towards the other end of the room. Hobbes started to rise to join them, but Claire pushed down on his shoulder. "No, Bobby, you stay here and keep working on this. Please?"

They reached the far end of the Keep, behind the tanks of fish and venomous reptiles, and Darien held up the puzzle book, his concern all over his face. "You mind telling me what's going on, Keep? I mean, I remember the last time we had this puzzle book in here. And that little thing with the DNA kits? Please tell me that's not happening to Hobbes again."

"I don't think so," Claire reassured him, taking the book and leafing through it. "You marked questions you'd asked him?"

"Yeah, yeah, when we wanted to make sure he was back to his old self, you asked me to figure out something to ask him that he hadn't heard before."

"Good. That makes it a lot easier to test my theory."

"Theory? What theory?"

Claire hushed him and led him over to stand behind Hobbes, whose attention was still on the computer. She pointed to one of the marked questions, mouthing the word 'casual' to him. Darien took the book, using all his con-man talents to keep his voice light and keep his fear for Hobbes out of it.

"Hey, Hobbsey?"

"What is it, Fawkes, I'm trying to concentrate here."

"Oh, just a quick question. There have been orders for 200 Rolls Royces, 115 Vauxhalls, and 500 Hondas. How many orders have there been for Renaults?"

"Fifty." Hobbes tossed off distractedly.

Claire saw the worry in Darien's eyes and tried to convey reassurance. She pointed at a second question, this one not marked.

"A certain month has five Thursdays in it and the date of the second Sunday is the 13th. What is the date of the third Tuesday?"

"How the hell should I know?" Bobby turned away from the computer, irritated at the interruption. Then he spotted the Mensa quiz book. "What the -- " He looked at the computer screen and back, mentally playing back the tape of the last minute. "Claire? Fawkes? What's going on?"

"I'd kinda like to know that myself," Darien told the Keeper.

"Am I coming down with that genius virus thing again, Keeper? Is that what's happening?"

"No, Bobby, I don't think so."

"Oh, you don't think so? Could you let me know when you know for sure? This is only my sanity we're talking about here."

"Calm down, Bobby, I think we've just proven my theory." She pointed to the questions in the quiz book. "You were able to answer one of these without even thinking about it, but you didn't have a clue about the second. Now, the difference between them is that the first question is one that you had heard before, when you were the genius, and had worked out the solution to at that time. The second question was one you had never heard until now." Both agents looked uncertain. "Well, don't you see? If Bobby were becoming a genius again, he would have been able to solve both questions."

Darien frowned. "So he's, what, only partway a genius? I don't get it."

"Look at what he said about the DNA test kit. It was all information Bobby would have been exposed to before, not something he had to work out on the spot." She pulled out the napkin, by now worn and torn at the edges. "I think this diagram Bobby made was also something he knew once, perhaps something he figured out while he was a genius.

"The common link between them all is memory! Bobby isn't becoming a genius again, he's remembering things he knew when he  _was_  a genius."

Darien turned to Bobby, understanding in his eyes. "Hobbes, you remember when you woke up, you were back to your old self, you told me that the stuff you knew was all still there? The information was there, you just couldn't reach it, couldn't understand it anymore?"

"Forever on the tip of my tongue. I remember." He turned to the Keeper. "I think you're right. I keep getting these flashes of deja vu. I see things, and I think, 'Yeah, that's right,' or 'No, that's wrong.' But I can't pin it down any better than that."

"Can you remember the circumstances you might have come up with that molecule?"

"I'm not sure... Let me try something." Hobbes closed his eyes, his breathing becoming slow and regular, his face relaxing. His partner didn't think he'd ever seen Hobbes' face looking relaxed before; even in his sleep, lines of worry creased his features.

"What's he doing?" Darien whispered.

"It looks like he's trying to recreate a hypnotic state. He said Dr. Martin was trying hypnosis to help him recover blocked memories." She snapped her fingers, glancing guiltily at Bobby, hoping she hadn't disturbed him, before explaining. "That must be it! They were trying to get at blocked memories, only they found the wrong ones."

"His new shrink wouldn't have know what sort of booby-traps Hobbes has lying around in his head."

Hobbes shivered slightly as he opened his eyes, his face clouding again with stress and worry.

"Bobby? Did you come up with something?"

"I'm not sure. I think... I think maybe I knew stuff about the gland. About how it worked, about how Quicksilver worked, everything. But that's all still locked away. I couldn't remember any of it!"

"It's okay, Bobby. I don't think it's anything we need to know anymore."

"Guys? What are you talking about?" Darien got the distinct impression he was coming in late to this conversation.

"Bobby made a doodle on a napkin the other day, which turns out to have been a variant form of one of the hormones secreted by the Quicksilver gland. One of the ones related to Quicksilver madness, except this variant wouldn't cause the madness. When he was a super-genius, he might have been able to draw on things he'd seen and heard about the gland to come up with some sort of cure for the madness. And now he's remembering bits and pieces of that cure."

"But you've already cured the Quicksilver madness."

"Exactly. It's fascinating to know there may have been at least one equally successful option, but at this point it's only a novelty."

"Yeah, yeah, but what if there's other stuff in Hobbes' head?" He turned to his partner. "Do you think you knew how to get the gland out?"

"I don't know, partner." Hobbes shook his head. "I don't know if I knew or if I didn't know." Hobbes looked distinctly uneasy, eyes flicking about the room, his body taut.

Darien rested a hand on his partner's shoulder. "Hobbes, did you notice you remember best when you're not trying? That picture you drew, that was just idle doodling. When I asked you questions while you were at the computer, you weren't paying attention to it, weren't thinking about it, and the answer just popped out."

"So you want me to just ignore it? To try to not think about it?"

"We've got time, Hobbes. Just keep scratch paper handy, or get in the habit of telling me what's in your head, or something. Maybe another doodle will show up and give the Keeper here something new to work with."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Mei-Lin tilted her head to the side and glanced over at Alex. "Did it hurt much?"

"Childbirth? Yes and no. There's a lot of pain, but you're so focused on the end result that it's not nearly as bad as pain like that would be any other time. You sure do ache afterwards, though."

"At least I'll be able to sleep on my stomach again."

"And go more than an hour without having to find a bathroom."

"And fit back into normal clothes."

"Oh, that will take at least another nine months. The weight didn't come on overnight, it won't come off all at once either."

"I'm sure that thrilled your husband."

Alex held up her left hand to display the lack of a ring. "No husband. Just me."

"Sorry."

"Don't be. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Plenty of women are raising children on their own."

"Divorce, death, break-ups... Like the way Chen-Po left."

"At least you had someone for a while."

"Didn't you?"

Alex shook her head. "James was conceived from an anonymous donor."

"I'm sorry, but I don't understand that. Why raise a child alone?"

"I wanted to have children, and it got to a point where if I didn't start trying, I wasn't ever going to be able to. I figured I still have a chance to get married at any age. Mother nature isn't so kind."

"Weren't you afraid of being alone?"

"It's not the end of the world, to be without a man. I figured that I was a lot better prepared for it than a woman whose husband dies or divorces her, who expected to have a partner and had to scramble to adjust to being alone."

"Like me."

Alex moved over next to Mei-Lin and wrapped an arm around her. "You're not so bad off. Really. You're intelligent, well educated, physically fit. Your salary has got to be higher than the average for a family of four by several thousand at least. You've struck out on your own and succeeded before, when you came to Darien with the backpack."

"I was scared to death the whole time."

"And I'll bet you're scared to death now. So was I. So are women who do have husbands."

"It's not an option I'd ever considered that way before."

"Look, I'm not saying it's a goal. I'd rather raise my son with a proper father too. But if you don't have a relationship to draw from, or if you were stuck in a miserable one, or end up divorced a few years down the line, then you're better off on your own."

Alex's beeper chose that moment to go off. She looked at the number and swore softly. "I have to go."

"You've given me a lot to think about. Thank you."

"Are you okay? Would you like me to see if Fawkes can come back and sit with you for a while?"

Mei-Lin hesitated a moment. "Yes, I think I'd like that."

"I'll see if he can bring that puzzle book, that will give you something to talk about."

And with that Alex was out the door.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Hobbes barely noticed his partner's departure. He had gone back to looking at molecules, hoping something would trigger a memory. He didn't find anything specific, only the occasional flicker of recognition. That, and a growing sense that something was off in what he was seeing, that something was not right in general.

"How are you doing, Bobby? Any impressions?"

"Not exactly. I just... I feel like there's something wrong here, like the pictures aren't quite right."

"Well," Claire said, thinking aloud, "if you did come up with a different cure than Arnaud did, maybe that's all it is. You're subconscious is expecting to see one version and sees another. Or maybe it's because there are some models in that collection that are pre-cure.

"Yeah, maybe. It's just starting to get to me, you know?"

"Well, like Darien said, it's not urgent." She gestured to the counter. "I'm already working on Mei-Lin and the genetic testing on her baby. I wouldn't have much chance to work on something new until later anyway."

"Yeah. I hope the kid doesn't get too attached to the idea of being a parent, so it won't be too much of a letdown when he isn't."

"Why don't you go get some lunch, Bobby? Give your brain a chance to assimilate all the buried memories that have been accumulating so far. You can come back later to try again."

"Or, you could try working on some cases." The Official emerged from behind the frosted glass barrier, Eberts trailing behind as usual.

"All due respect, sir, I don't think running off on some case is what I need to be doing right now. Fawkes is a sensitive guy, he's going to need some support when he finds out the results."

"Actually, Robert, you wouldn't have to leave the building. I could pull all the unsolved case files and you could go over them."

Bobby and Claire exchanged a look. "You know what, that sounds like an excellent idea, right, Keepy?"

"Yes, perhaps you will remember something useful. Just don't feel like you have to if it's not there." Hobbes nodded and headed for the door, Eberts trailing behind.

"I could also pull any files flagged as having incomplete paperwork."

"Don't push it, Eberts."

The Official turned back to the Keeper as they vanished down the hall. "How are things going with Mei-Lin and her baby?"

"So far, so good. I'm not finding any evidence of the Quicksilver residue the earlier tests indicated. Perhaps it's broken down to undetectable levels now. The only question left is whether the Quicksilver in Mei-Lin's bloodstream at the time of conception and early gestation will have had any teratogenic effect." At the Official's blank look, she elaborated, "whether it's caused any birth defects."

"And I gather you have started a paternity test?"

"That will be done in another couple of days."

"Excellent. Keep me informed."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Darien perched on a stool next to Mei-Lin's bed, his feet hooked through the rungs and leaned forward earnestly.

"Mei-Lin, I wanted to talk to you about something. About..." he gestured towards her belly.

"Perhaps that should wait until Dr. Keeply's tests are completed."

"No, I don't think this should wait. Because I don't know, if the tests come out, whether you'll want to hear me then. And I want you to know that I've thought about this, and I'm not saying this because I have to, and that I mean it."

"Alright," Mei-Lin said, shifting around to lean sideways against the raised top of the bed so that she could see Darien better, giving him her full attention.

"I know that I might not be the best parent a kid could hope for. I know that I used to be a thief, and I'm not in the safest job in the world, and I haven't been acting like a responsible grown-up for nearly as much of my life as some people would think I should have. I mean, like you said, I'm a very strange guy." Unable to sit still, he unhooked his feet from the stool and began tilting it forwards, shifting his upper body back to maintain his center of gravity and to keep from shoving his face too close to Mei-Lin's.

"And it still pleases you to be strange." she said, smiling.

"Yeah, but, uh, there are more important things now. And that responsible grown-up thing?" He let the stool thunk back to solid footing. "I think I'm getting the hang of it now. Maybe... maybe even enough for some other responsible grown-up to be able to trust me to do the responsible grown-up things. For someone who isn't as responsible or, or grown-up.

"I'm not saying I've got a handle on this, not exactly, I mean, I'm still freaking out, on the inside. But I think that's sort of how most new parents feel." He laughed nervously, wiggling in his seat again. "Parents. Now I've done it, I've said the word. And I know we don't know whether it fits or not, yet. But if it does, I'm, I'm gonna do the right thing."

"The right thing?" Mei-Lin sat up straighter, one hand clutching the edge of the pillow.

"Not  _the_  do-the-right-thing thing, at least, not, not necessarily. I mean that would be up to you, too, you two." He gestured at her midsection again. "But I'll try to do right by this kid, to support it, to do my part to try to help raise it." He ran his hand through his hair, spiking it up even more than usual. "I hate saying 'it.' I'll try to make, well, to make him or her into a good person, a happy person. I may not be able to do everything, but I can learn. I want to learn."

Unable to sit still any longer, he bounced to his feet and began fiddling with the small mountain of baby things piled against the wall nearby.

"I never thought about having kids before," he said, wiggling a small stuffed rabbit at her, "except, you know, as kind of an abstract thing, might be nice some day. But I think, it's really pretty cool." He nestled the rabbit inside the depression at the top of a bottle sterilizer. "And even if it isn't, if I'm not Little Whosit's father, this whole thing has helped me realize that. So I'll still owe you one." He hovered by the bed now, nervously touching the edge of the fitted sheet but not quite reaching far enough to be an overture for direct contact.

Mei-Lin smiled, her lip quivering. "Thank you, Fawkes."

"I think you can call me Darien now."

"Darien. Thank you. It is a great relief to know that, if the baby is yours, I won't be on my own."

He could hear the unspoken question there. What if the baby wasn't his?

There was a small, noble part of him that wanted to say,  _I don't care if the baby isn't mine. If I'm ready to commit, if I'm willing to make a life that's linked to both of yours, I shouldn't give up on that just because of genetics, because my sperm wasn't the fastest_. But there was a whole lot bigger part of him that knew, if he was let off the hook, he'd feel a lot more relief than disappointment. At least he hoped he would, because he just couldn't bring himself to make that sort of promise.

"Have you talked to Chen-Po at all? Let him know you're alright?"

"I tried our number last night, but there was no answer. I... chickened out before trying his cell phone." She turned her face away, always to the right so that her scars didn't show, despite the fact that her body was turned to the left this time.

"Look at it this way. What have you got to lose? If you really don't have him now, then things can't get any worse on that front. And maybe you really have more than you think you do." She slowly turned back towards him. He reached up and the backs of his fingers traced across the scars on her face. He hooked her hair behind her ear and cupped her chin, thumb gently caressing her cheek. "He didn't stop loving you after the accident. He left his job, his country, to be with you."

"He thinks I have betrayed him."

"Then explain it to him. If he can't deal with it, then you move on from there, but I think he deserves a chance. Because... I know I'd want one." His hand fell back to his side, but their faces remained close for a long moment before she shifted away a little, breaking the tension, and he backed away in response, back to conversational distance.

"I think you've convinced me. But perhaps you should have waited for the test results before telling me this. If I speak with Chen-Po --"

"If this baby can be raised by two parents who love him, and love each other, then I'll count myself lucky. I can still, you know, I can still be Uncle Darien or something. I can still be in his life. But let's face it, it really will be about him, not about us, either way."

She touched her hand to her abdomen. "You called the baby him. Do you have a feeling about it?"

Darien remembered his dream. Mei-Lin holding a baby, a baby with red eyes. "...just like his father." A little shiver ran up his neck and made his hair stand up. "No, not really. Just got tired of, you know, trying to come up with nonsexist, er, nongendered words," he dissembled.

"I would like a little boy. I think it would please Chen-Po as well."

Darien didn't say anything, but with the memory of the dream freshly recalled to mind, he was really, really hoping for a girl.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Claire stopped by a little later. She found Darien and Mei-Lin tête-à-tête, heads bent over the puzzle book, trying to solve a maze with one of them starting at each end. Their hands kept bumping into each other as their paths crossed, pushing against each other jokingly to get where they were headed. Finally, almost before they realized it, their pencil tips touched, the maze completed. They turned towards each other, perfectly in synch, leaving their faces mere inches apart, for several long seconds. Claire waited a moment to see whether they would move together into the kiss that was almost palpable in the air between them, or break apart and release the tension, but she ran out of patience before they had decided.

"Darien?" She pretended she'd just stepped in, already in smooth motion before their startled jump had pulled their heads apart and up to look at the newcomer. "Ah, so you did bring the puzzle book."

"Yeah, why, did you need it? I thought...."

"No, no, I just wondered when I didn't see it." She turned to Mei-Lin. "I just wanted to let you know that the RFLP analysis is underway."

"Uh, riff lip?" Darien asked. "That some kinda Mick Jagger guitar thing?"

"RFLP. The paternity test. We run segments from Mei-Lin and from the baby, and compare that with both potential fathers, and it's very easy to tell which one is a match."

"And how long does that... wait a minute...." Darien went from one sort of interest to another. "Both potential fathers?"

Claire realized her slip immediately. It took Mei-Lin a moment longer to catch on. "You have seen Chen-Po?"

"No, I haven't." she quickly asserted. "One of our agents supplied the sample, and no, I don't know where he got it."

Darien rolled his eyes. "'One of our agents'? Claire, don't try to con a con." He pushed past her to the door. She called after him but he ignored her. She turned back to find Mei-Lin trying to unstrap the fetal monitor.

 

~^~^~^~^~

 

Bursting into the office they shared, Darien found Hobbes at his desk, an open case file in front of him. His desk was turned so that he could face the door and sit with his back to the wall. As the door banged against the wall, Bobby's hands emerged from beneath the desk, holding his gun in a practiced grip aimed straight at the doorway.

"Jeeze, Fawkes! You trying to get yourself killed?" He thumbed the safety, putting the gun on the desk within easy reach.

"Not the first time you've aimed a gun at me, partner. Now what the hell is this about you talking to Chen-Po without telling anyone?"

"I told someone," Hobbes said, sinking back behind the desk. One hand snagged the gun, which disappeared back behind the cheap, scratched metal. "I told the Keeper."

"Yeah, but you didn't tell me, and you didn't tell Mei-Lin."

"Keeper didn't tell you either." Hobbes was leafing through the files again. Darien came over to the desk and yanked the top file away, slamming it closed and tossing it behind him.

"Claire didn't go hunt the guy down, you did!"

Hobbes jumped up, stomping over to collect his file, shouting at Darien. "Hunt the guy down, huh? You wanna know who was hunting who, Fawkes?" He scooped up the folder and slapped it back on the desk, pages askew. "Chen-Po was hunting you, my friend."

"He what?" The anger drained out of Darien, but Hobbes was still building steam. Darien realized belatedly that Hobbes' gun was again clutched in his hand, finger on the trigger guard.

"That tail you shook, you think that was just some random guy? Or did it ever occur to you that it might be somebody you knew. Or more like, somebody who knew  _you_  knew his fiancée, and maybe that pissed him off?" He sneered the emphasis on the biblical phrasing. "I keep tellin' ya, Fawkes, and you keep leavin' yourself open. You knew Chen-Po had been at the Agency, the Fat Man let him in himself, and that's where he picked up your trail, right on our own doorstep. And it took you how long to pick up on it? Musta been ten minutes!"

"Wait, how'd you... you were following me?" Darien stared a moment, trying to decide how pissed off to be about that. Then he shook his head, tabling the issue until the first matter was settled. "So how'd you end up with Chen-Po's DNA?"

"I tailed the tail, Fawkes. Except I did a lot better job than he did. He didn't see me until he'd lost you and I showed myself."

"What did you do then?"

Hobbes shrugged, calming down a little with the talking. "Talked. I mean, he'd lost you, you hadn't led him to Mei-Lin, I'm the next thing on his list. 'Cept he knows he can't take me, so we wind up with a little verbal fencing instead, 'cos he hasn't yet learned that I am the master there too."

"Bobby Hobbes-speak aside, what did Chen-Po have to say?"

Hobbes scowled. "Eh, he said he wanted to talk with Mei-Lin. I told him to steer clear of the Agency and of you especially, and if Mei-Lin wanted to talk, she could call him."

"So he knew Mei-Lin was here? Is he back in with the MSS or something?"

"Nah, he didn't even know they'd had her. Why do you think he was tailing you? He wanders around thinking, gets back and she'd gone, he figured she split again, like last time. Thought she'd gone to you, God knows why...."

Mei-Lin appeared in the doorway, the Keeper at her elbow, so fast it was obvious they'd been listening from the hallway. "He thought I had left him?"

"That's what he said." Hobbes had the decency to look a little embarrassed, and the gun he'd been absently waving around disappeared somewhere on his person, but Hobbes stuck to his paranoia. "I still say he could be after Fawkes or you."

Mei-Lin shook her head definitively. "No. I know Chen-Po. He is stubborn, especially in matters of honor, but he would not harm me, or force me to go with him. Remember, last time, he came after me, joined me here, even though I would have been just as happy in China once we got past the issue of... my face."

Hobbes scowled at the suggestion that anyone could be as happy in China as in the United States. "Okay, so maybe,  _maybe_  he wouldn't hurt you, but what about Fawkes? He's the one who trashed Chen-Po's honor this time."

"It wasn't like that. Perhaps, if I talk to him, Chen-Po can understand that."

"Maybe you should just wait for the paternity results, before you get him involved in this again."

"Speaking of which...." Darien dragged the conversation back towards its original track. "How'd you end up with a sample of Chen-Po's DNA to compare?"

"He let me collect a sample. I'm sure he wants to know just as much as you do, kid."

"But, Bobby," Darien asked sharply, "Claire didn't open that package of sample kits until  _after_  the night I got tailed."

"Yeah, so? I arranged a meeting so I could get a sample from him."

"Without asking or telling anyone else?"

"Nobody else needed to know."

"Mr. Hobbes, do you think you could arrange another meeting?" Mei-Lin's tone was casual, but her eyes were intense.

"Sure, I could, but you're here," his glance took in the fact that Mei-Lin was now on her feet and away from the monitors and equipment. "And I'll be damned if I let him back into the Agency now that we don't have to."

The Keeper spoke up now. "Mei-Lin is stable enough, she should be fine for short trips. Just no more downtown chase scenes."

Hobbes glowered. "Okay, okay. If the Fat Man clears it, I'll make arrangements for today's exciting adventures in shepherding. Just for the record, let me remind you all that I am against this idea."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Mei-Lin felt, as always, extremely self-conscious about appearing in public, where large numbers of people could see her scarred face. Chen-Po's quiet acceptance and support had helped a great deal, but in the last few weeks, without him, she had begun to feel her old fragility again. It didn't help that the closer they got to the meeting place Agent Hobbes had arranged, the more crowded the streets became.

Suddenly Mei-Lin was brought up short by the sight of someone else's face. The young man had a rather average, somewhat stout body, but his face was marred by a series of ridges across his forehead and the bridge of his nose. Her eyes took in his oddly designed coveralls, with some sort of unfamiliar military insignia she was unable to identify before he'd passed them. A few moments later she saw a young woman with dark blotches all over the sides of her face and running down the back of her neck. She wore her hair pulled back and up, as if showing them off instead of trying to hide them, and Mei-Lin had to admit that their appearance was rather artistic, perhaps some sort of tattooed design.

Then she took in the plastic convention badge attached to the front of her form-fitting jumper. Now that she knew to look for them, she spotted several others in the crowd around them, including some on T-shirts featuring everything from dragons curled around dodecahedrons with numbers on each side, to creatures with even more bizarre faces than the one they had passed earlier.

A young couple dressed in ordinary jeans and T-shirts gave her a thumbs-up as she passed, the girl commenting, "Nice latex!" while openly looking at the scars on her face.

Mei-Lin caught Hobbes' amused look. "What is going on here, Mr. Hobbes?"

"It's a role-playing convention. Any decent-sized city will get at least a dozen every year. Bunch of geeks get together and pretend they're knights and vampires and Star Trek characters. And spies. And there's sections for historical simulations, war games, military strategy...."

"Why are we here?"

"Because if we talk in an ordinary restaurant, or a park, or whatever, then people are liable to overhear one of us say something that will catch their attention as out of the ordinary." He gestured, taking in the crowd, which was by now at least half convention-goers. "Around here, no matter what we say, or even do, people are gonna assume it's all part of a game. Hell, I could pull my gun on Chen-Po if I have to, and the most we'd get is a few disapproving looks and maybe a warning not to scare the mundanes, because they think our props are too realistic."

Taking a minute to digest all that, Mei-Lin noted several more exotic costumes. She decided her Quicksilver backpack would have fit right in. But there was probably a limit to the credulity of even this crowd; she doubted that actually Quicksilvering would pass without notice here, whereas the average citizen, catching a glimpse of her disappearing, would rationalize it away as a trick of the light or of their own mind.

They reached a park area near the beach. Seated at one of the picnic tables was Chen-Po, looking a little bewildered by a pair of women wearing chain mail bikinis and little else practicing some surprisingly sophisticated swordplay nearby. But once he spotted Mei-Lin, the rest of the park was forgotten. He rose, started to step forward but caught himself before his greeting became too familiar, and Mei-Lin felt and fought down a similar impulse to greet her fiancé with a long, close hug. They nodded a bit warily instead.

"Mei-Lin! You are alright? And the baby?" He searched her face, for signs of any problems as well as for her reaction to him.

"We're both fine. The tests have gone well. I'm just a bit tired." She sank onto the bench on the opposite side of the picnic table. Chen-Po seated himself as he had been.

They both looked up at Hobbes, awkwardly. The agent seemed to fight an inner battle, then finally turned and walked several yards away and leaned against a tree, ostensibly watching the swordfighters, who had now been joined by a Jedi with a quarterstaff subbing for a lightsaber. They both knew his attention was really on them, but he would not be able to hear what they said unless voices were raised.

"I wish I could have been there for you, Mei-Lin. For the tests."

They sat awkwardly for a long minute. Finally, Chen-Po reached out and took her hand in his.

"There is so much I wish to say. I did not mean for you to think I had left you, Mei-Lin. What you told me... took me by surprise. I needed some time to think, but I did come back the next night. When I saw you were gone, I realized my mistake, but by then it was too late and I couldn't find you."

"And you thought I had gone to Darien?" She realized Chen-Po would note the change in how she referred to Fawkes, but how she thought of him had changed. To try to correct herself would be even more awkward.

"After the fire, while you were in the hospital and I watched the doctors work on you, I never knew, day by day, what you would look like. After each skin graft, their predictions became less and less hopeful for any kind of normal appearance. But I knew it was still you inside, that you were still the woman I loved, the woman who loved me. You might be going through a lot emotionally, but I knew that if I supported you long enough, you would eventually realize that." He looked down, smiling at his own naiveté. "I just didn't realize how long and how much that would take. But I did it, gladly.

"But this... The fact that you could love another man, I was not prepared for. It made me think perhaps you were not the person I thought you were. And I tried to find you, but my contacts from the MSS were unavailable, and there was so little I could do without them."

His thumb traced across the back of her right hand, where the scar tissue was barely noticeable compared to her upper arm and face.

"I love you, Mei-Lin. I want to be with you, and your baby. No matter whose it is, it's a part of you, how could I not love it? And I know I'm supposed to say that if you love Fawkes, I'll bow out gracefully, but I can't promise that. I can only promise that I will fight to win you back, whatever it takes."

Mei-Lin wiped a tear from her cheek with her free hand. She could see the unshed tears in Chen-Po's eyes, hear them thickening his voice at the end. It was her turn to explain. She only hoped he could understand.

"All that time in the hospital, I couldn't see my own face very often, but I could see the pity in everyone's eyes. I got so sick of seeing it. That's why I wanted to become invisible. Even in your eyes, I could see pity. I just wish I had been able, then, to see what else was there.

"So I finished perfecting the backpack, stole it, and came here, hoping to be able to complete the recycler as well. And everywhere I went, there was that same pity. People didn't see  _me_  any more. I was already invisible, except for my scars.

"And then I met Fawkes, and he looked at me with pity, but there was something more, beyond that. He saw me, even when I really was invisible. As I spent time with him, I found that he was an honest man. It sounds strange to say it about a thief, but his reactions were more honest than most people in more honorable professions.

"His Quicksilver gland is triggered by adrenaline. Excitation. I needed help with the backpack, and he was a perfect gentleman, but his gland betrayed the reactions he was too respectful to show himself. I never thought a man would react that way to me again."

Chen-Po stiffened, started to withdraw his hand, but she held tighter, her eyes pleading for him to hear her out even as a flush crept up her face.

"I had convinced myself that anything of the sort was merely acting, that no one could honestly find me attractive any longer. But this wasn't anything he could fake. And he was so open about what was happening to him, so embarrassed at his own lack of control. It was something I couldn't deny, I couldn't tell myself it was done out of pity.

"I needed that. I was too close to you, I couldn't trust myself, couldn't bring myself to believe what you said you felt. But this, finally, was something that convinced me, not in my head, but in my heart, that someone really could feel that way about me.

She tried to catch his eye, but he was staring down at the picnic table. She took comfort in the fact that he still held her hand, not pulling away any longer.

"It wasn't love, Chen-Po. If anything, it felt more like... like friendship. Like we were comforting each other. It was incredibly important to me, and I wouldn't take it back, because of what it did for my heart, for my spirit. Because if it hadn't happened, I don't think I could have believed you still loved me. But on another level, it was... meaningless. A fling. I don't know if you'll ever truly understand, but I hope you will be able to forgive."

"I almost wish you had not told me," Chen-Po stated, so quietly Mei-Lin could barely hear.

"I know honor is more important to you that just honesty. You would stay with me because it was your child. I didn't want you to stay with me out of a sense of obligation, any more than I wanted you to stay out of pity before. I wanted to give you an honorable way out. But if you will have me, no matter whose baby it is, then I will gladly try to make a life with you."

Chen-Po looked up at last, and now the tears did flow, on both their cheeks. And despite Hobbes' assertions, a few heads were turning, seeing emotions that so clearly were not part of any role-playing game.

Chen-Po searched her face, his mind adjusting to the new information. "If what happened between you and Fawkes... was what allowed you to come back to me...then I will have to be glad for it as well. I will always be jealous, but I think I can understand enough to accept it."

They leaned across the picnic table, their lips meeting gently, tenderly. Mei-Lin caught a glimpse of Hobbes scowling at them, but she was too happy to care.

"So, what are we going to do now?"

Before they had the chance to discuss their future any further, Hobbes had come back over, standing close behind Mei-Lin's shoulder. "Right now, Mei-Lin is going back to the Agency. It's too open here, too exposed."

"Surely there is no danger...." Chen-Po trailed off. The way that Agent Hobbes' eyes flicked about the park, the way his hand kept straying near his gun, argued that he really did know of some danger to Mei-Lin and the baby. Perhaps there was some threat he was unaware of, cut off as he was from his contacts. His old instincts began kicking up, and he realized belatedly that Hobbes had maintained a position where he could keep an eye on the ongoing weapons demonstration and the picnic table at the same time, close enough to in between them to be able to intervene if the entertainment became a threat.

Mei-Lin was picking up on it too. "Let's go. We can talk more back at the Agency."

"Negative. You may be satisfied about Chen-Po, but he doesn't have clearance, and here's no interagency cooperation involved this time."

"I can protect her!"

"Like you protected her from getting snatched by the MSS?"

Chen-Po was growing angry, but he couldn't deny the truth of the agent's statements either.

"The Keeper still needs to keep an eye on that baby, and the test results aren't in yet. Mei-Lin comes with me. You want to help her, you keep yourself safe and out of sight."

Regretfully, they exchanged one more chaste kiss before Hobbes took Mei-Lin's arm and escorted her away, eyes constantly flickering from face to face. Chen-Po looked around the park, noting what sort of people were where, and moved towards some older gentlemen in military uniforms who had set up an amazing variety of model tanks, troops and airplanes on a long table with inlaid chess boards visible beneath their maps and grids. He thought he recognized the battle and wanted to see who would win this time around.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act Four

 

Once inside the Harding building, Mei-Lin expected to return to the basement lab where Claire and her fetal monitor awaited. The afternoon had tired her more than she'd expected, and she was looking forward to lying down for a while. Instead, Hobbes continued to steer her by the arm, guiding her up to the second floor and into an office. The fat man behind the desk there was so similar to her former employers' head man that she knew this must be the Official Darien had referred to.

Hobbes helped her into a seat, one rather more comfortable than the others in the room, aside from the chair the fat man occupied; she supposed it had been brought in as a consideration for her condition. The agent took up a position behind her, near the door; it made her nervous having him so close yet out of her sight.

"Dr. Chong. I'm pleased to hear that the test results are so far quite encouraging. If there is anything you require to make you more comfortable, please let me know."

"Thank you, your Dr. Keeply had been taking good care of me." She glanced back at Hobbes, who still seemed as much on alert as he had in the park. She wondered what danger he was expecting in the heart of his home base. "I am looking forward to getting the results and hopefully getting on with my life."

"Yes, yes. I imagine you are. And on that note, I have a proposal for you. I'd like you to stay on, work with us on perfecting the backpack and recycler."

She'd been expecting something of the sort. Part of her was surprised it had taken him so long to make the offer.

"We feel that, as the only agency with any significant experience with Quicksilver, not to mention the only reliable supply of the real thing, it's a perfect match. Your talents were wasted with the MSS, having to spend so much time on unnecessarily duplicating work we have already completed and moved beyond.

"Additionally, we have at our disposal a physician who has extensive experience with the health effects of Quicksilver on a subject repeatedly exposed to it. She's already familiar with your history, and is probably the only doctor available anywhere with anything close to her knowledge and experience in this area. That could prove to be very important, should there prove to be any ill effects on you, or on your unborn baby."

"I appreciate the offer, but I'll need time to think about it. I'm not sure that government work would be the best choice for us."

"I understand. I just wanted to explain to you the benefits of joining us. The, ah, health plan would, of course, be included in the employment package."

Mei-Lin realized the implied threat there. If she did not accept employment from the Agency, then the 'health plan' would be made unavailable. He detailed all the reasons why she needed the Keeper, and then threatened to take her away if she didn't join. Resentment boiled, but she kept it in check. Much as it galled her, she was afraid to be without that safety net. She would have to stall at least until the test results came back, although she was certain the Official would be pressuring her to make a commitment before then.

"There may be another advantage. As I understand it, the parentage of your child is in question. The two, ah, candidates, are both intelligence agents; one is currently employed by this Agency, the other is, shall we say, between jobs. Now, if the paternity test shows that Agent Fawkes is the father, well, that sounds like a perfect match, both of you working for the same agency. And if Chen-Po Li is the lucky winner, well, I've been favorably impressed by the man's abilities. He's worked well with us before, helping Hobbes locate and retrieve you before the MSS could. I think we would be able to find a position for him here."

"Let me see if I've got this straight. If I accept employment with you, I will have a ready supply of Quicksilver to work with, access to medical care for myself and my baby from a physician familiar with the effects of Quicksilver, and employment for the father of my child, whoever he turns out to be."

"That seems a fair summary." The Official smiled in triumph.

"And if I refuse, then that medical care will be cut off, and no offer made to Chen-Po."

"That seems a bit unfair. But accurate," he added.

She knew she wasn't hiding her anger very well, but then, she suspected he was quite prepared for her reaction. His confidence hadn't faltered, which she resented even more.

"Well, you've given me something to think about. May I return to the lab and speak with Dr. Keeply, or am I required to give an answer before seeing my doctor?"

"No, no, by all means, go. We have a few days before I will have to start considering how to justify continuing these expenditures on a civilian."

"Thank you," she said, with bad grace. She rose to leave, wishing she didn't feel so awkward just getting out of a chair. She was so tired; she wondered how she would be able to manage in three more months, with this lethargy combined with even more changes to her weight and balance.

Agent Hobbes was still positioned by the door. "If you'll allow me to escort you back to the lab?" He opened the door to the office and waited for her to pass before closing it behind them.

"Is he always like that?" she asked, once they were a ways down the hallway and presumably out of earshot of the Official.

"Like what? Like the carrot-and-stick, with emphasis on the stick? Like manipulating anyone and everyone to get what he wants?" Hobbes shrugged. "Sure, aren't they all?"

"Ming certainly was, although it took me a while to figure that out."

"Ain't nobody looking out for anything but their own good. The sooner you figure that out, the happier you'll be in this business."

"And what about you, Agent Hobbes? Are you looking out for only your own good?"

"My good, and my partner's. And my partner cares about you, and he thinks that baby might be his, so for now, looking out for you and your baby is looking out for him. And if anything happens to change that, well, then that may change."

Mei-Lin smiled. "I think some of your partner's honesty has rubbed off on you."

"Nah, I'm just a good enough liar that you can't tell the difference."

She threw him a sharp look, but his face gave no clue whether he was joking or not.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Mei-Lin was back in bed, the fetal monitor strapped to her belly, tracking her baby's heart rate and movements, as well as the gentle, regular contractions of a healthy uterus beginning to gear up for the job ahead. Darien popped his head through the entrance.

"Feel like some company?" He was already strolling in; she'd wanted company almost non-stop ever since the amniocentesis.

She avoided his eyes. "Actually, I think I'd like to be alone for a while."

"Uh oh." He reached up a hand to gently touch her upper arm. "Did things not go well with Chen-Po?"

"No, actually, things went very well. I just... have a lot to think about."

"Uh, okay, I guess...." Darien backed away, a puzzled, hurt look on his face. He was halfway out the door when the Keeper came in, almost bumping into him since her nose was buried in a printout.

"Darien! Good, you should hear this too."

Mei-Lin looked up as the Keeper entered, annoyed but a bit fearful as well. "Is there news?"

"The results of the genetic tests." Darien hovered awkwardly, not feeling comfortable taking Mei-Lin's hand but feeling like he should be present anyway.

"Is everything alright?"

"No evidence of Down's Syndrome, Tay-Sachs, or any other genetic disease we can test for. And...." she paused as if for an imaginary drum roll. "It's a boy!"

Mei-Lin smiled. Darien gave an awkward quick smile, still watching the Keeper anxiously. "And the, the test about who's the father?"

Claire nudged the rolling stool towards Darien with her foot. He took the hint and sat down.

"Did you and Chen-Po talk, Mei-Lin? And more important, is he here?"

"We talked, but Hobbes said he wasn't cleared to be here."

"Would you like to call him?"

Darien was bouncing, shifting around on the stool, rolling back and forth. Mei-Lin glanced over at him, and then told the Keeper, "No, I think I'd rather hear it first. I can call him when we're not keeping anyone else in suspense."

Claire carefully looked at Mei-Lin and not Darien as she delivered the news.

"The test results are conclusive. The father of your baby --"

Darien jumped up and tried to grab away the papers. Claire held them away from him. "C'mon, cut the build-up, okay? Just tell me. Us."

Claire rolled her eyes. "I'd have gotten there by now if --" Twin glares from Darien and Mei-Lin cut off her comment.

"All right! It's Chen-Po Li. Happy?"

She regretted blurting it out that way. Darien sank back onto his stool, his face a blank, the numb look he'd assumed after first finding out fatherhood was a possibility. It didn't help that Mei-Lin was looking extremely pleased. Claire reached out to touch his shoulder with one gentle hand, speaking quietly to him alone.

"Are you okay?" She crouched down to try to bring her face into his field of vision.

Darien's eyes came back into focus and met hers. "Yeah," he said, "I think I am." He glanced up at Mei-Lin, who was watching him with concern that did nothing to dim her happiness. "I'm glad, Mei-Lin. You and Chen-Po are so great together; it's a good thing that the baby is yours. His."

Claire wasn't sure if Mei-Lin was fooled... despite the circumstances, they hadn't known each other long, and Mei-Lin was so happy, she was bound to want to project that. But Claire could see the disappointment Darien wouldn't voice with Mei-Lin there.

Hobbes strolled into the lab. He took in the scene and sidled up to stand next to the Keeper. "Chen-Po?" he asked out of the side of his mouth. Claire nodded, looking worried. Hobbes gave her an exaggerated wink and nodded towards Darien.

"Hey, Fawkes!" he greeted loudly, cheerfully. "You ready for lunch?"

Darien barely reacted. "I'm not really hungry, Hobbes."

"Don't be silly, Fawkes, you're always hungry. Now, come on, you'll feel better with something under that skinny belt of yours." He put a hand on each arm and practically lifted Darien off his stool. Fawkes looked like he was going along with it simply because that was easier than resisting him, but he'd really prefer to stay put.

Hobbes kept ahold of Darien's arm, saying little but physically steering him out of the lab and all the way out of the building. Only when they were halfway down the block did he start talking.

"Don't let it get to you, Fawkes. That's probably just what they're after."

Darien roused enough to ask, "Who?"

Hobbes continued, ignoring the question, talking in a rapid-fire compulsive style that slowly sunk in through Darien's lethargy to set off little alarm bells.

"I wouldn't put too much stock in those genetic tests, Fawkes. Too easy to manipulate. Swap a sample here, change a control column there, you can make 'em read what you want and then tell people what it means."

"Chill out, Hobbes. Keeper ran that thing herself, remember. And you're the one who collected the sample from Chen-Po."

"Yeah, but I didn't stick around to watch her set it up. And even if you trust her, she hasn't been in her lab 24/7, someone could have messed with it. Wouldn't want their prize agent cutting back his hours to change diapers, that wouldn't do." He cocked his head, eyes looking up and to the right, and Darien recognized Hobbes' new remembering pose. "Okay, so it's not your kid. There could be all sorts of reasons to mess with your head. Plus if they know for sure the baby is theirs, those two are more likely to leave, and maybe they're trying to get at the backpack technology. Gotta make sure Mei-Lin sticks around where she's safe, keep them from getting hold of her, who knows where they'll stash them if they don't cooperate."

Darien's head was starting to whirl trying to keep track of who 'they' or 'them' referred to each time his partner said it.

"No more of this migrating to Claire's house every night, she should be in the Keep where we can keep an eye on her, even if it does mean they can keep an eye on her too. Those guys watching her place aren't worth crap, spent half their time listening to the game last night. Too many people who know where she is, for her to be left that vulnerable."

Now it was 'she' and 'her' his partner was abusing, and it took him a moment to untangle the sentence enough to understand what he was saying. "Wait, wait, you've been checking up on Claire's place?"

"Hell yeah, you think I'm gonna leave it up to those mooks? I just told you what a great job they're doing, at least you know how to spot a tail, unless it's me, those guys don't even notice outright surveillance."

"Hobbes, you're scaring your partner here. First you're following me home, now you're checking up on Claire and Mei-Lin. One minute you're accusing Claire of rigging tests, the next you're worried about whether she's safe. Have you been taking the pills like you're supposed to?"

"I am taking all the pills I'm supposed to, my friend. And the Keeper's right about the new ones and my memory. I am remembering stuff, Fawkes, stuff I'd figured out was going on and had forgotten. The world is not a nice place, and people are not nice people, and it's all right under your nose but you just don't see it. You don't see... You're too naive, but you've got me to look after you, point all this crap out to you, and maybe you can take care of yourself when you know there's danger but you just can't see everything that's happening around you." Hobbes' movements were as erratic as his speech, his eyes darting around the streets despite their being near-empty at this hour. He shifted his weight, changed position to put himself in between Darien and any passers-by. He was starting to attract attention from the few people nearby.

Darien stopped in front of his partner. "That's it, Hobbes, that's enough. I'm going back to the Keep, and I'm going to call your shrink, and find out what the hell she's doing to screw you up so bad, because Hobbes, you are losing it!"

Hobbes caught ahold of Darien's arm and swung him back around to walking towards the little fast food place. "You're not going anywhere alone, my friend, you're the primary target. I'm gonna keep you safe in spite of yourself. And for God's sake, don't talk about this to anyone there, they'll hear you! Why do you think I dragged you out to this crappy place? Now, what do you want to order?"

The flood of words came to such an abrupt halt that Darien took a moment to catch up. "Hobbes, order what you like. I'm not hungry." He'd surrendered, for now, but he still intended to get ahold of Bobby's shrink, or at least talk to the Keeper about it. Because he'd just begun to realize that, nutso as Bobby usually acted, he's never even seen the half of it, until now.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The door to the Keep slid open and Claire could hear Bobby and Darien on the other side.

"....not gonna give me the slip, you know I can tail better than anyone!"

"That's right, Hobbesy, but right now I need to talk to the Keeper. And I want a little privacy."

"Not gonna happen...."

The door slid shut with Hobbes on the other side, cutting Hobbes off mid-sentence. Claire had been leaving the door open lately, but Darien had obviously triggered the mechanism to close and lock it.

Darien leaned heavily against the door and sighed in relief. Then he realized he could still hear his partner's voice, faintly, through the metal behind him, and he quickly shoved himself away and looked to the Keeper.

"Claire, you gotta do something. Hobbes is really losing it. I mean, the stuff he says he's remembering, and the spin he's putting on it...."

"I don't know if I'd dismiss what Bobby is remembering too quickly. Come and take a look at this." She led Darien over to her main computer, where diagrams of the Quicksilver hormones were now covered in labels and highlights. "Bobby highlighted several sections of the hormones. I don't even know if he realized he was doing it half the time, but every one of these segments has turned out to have some significance, most of them things I hadn't discovered yet."

"Okay, so he's some kind of chemistry whiz. Or he was, or however it works. But what he's saying now...."

"Darien, this is important. I think there may be a reason why Mei-Lin's baby isn't yours."

"Huh?" The apparent non sequitur derailed his train of thought, a visible double-take focusing his attention on the Keeper and her computers. "I thought it was, you know, random chance, or who swims faster, or maybe when she does her thing with the eggs."

"A fair layman's assessment of several things that are all normally factors, but since your encounter was considerably earlier than Chen-Po's, yet still within the window of viability, we would expect your odds to have been much higher than his. But I think that this," she pointed at the screen, "was an even bigger factor."

"Uh, Claire, I don't speak Mad Scientist, what makes you think I can read it, even the illustrated version?"

"Never mind about that. I'm not even a hundred percent certain about it yet. For that, I'm going to need more samples."

Darien sighed. "What is it, Keep? More needles? Or are you just gonna Q-tip my big mouth again?"

"Blood sample first, I think." With the ease of a long-practiced routine, she drew off a couple of vials of blood from his elbow. "Bloodwork, urinalysis, and....There's something else I'll need, too." At Darien's blank look, Claire blushed slightly. "We are talking about hormones here... and reproduction...." When Darien began to look away and stammer, she knew he'd caught on. "I can talk to Bobby while you're... occupied."

"Uh, Keep, there's a problem there, remember? I get to a point where I can, uh, provide a, uh, sample, there's this coating of Quicksilver in between, uh, it, and the container."

"Ah, but I have a very low-tech, very effective solution to that problem." She reached into a cabinet and pulled out a larger screw-top sample container, and the from behind them dug out a couple of small, square packets, with the impression of a ring shape inside. "Thin enough to fit in between you and the sheath of Quicksilver."

"You, uh, you keep these here?" Darien glanced significantly towards the padded exam chair he had been handcuffed to more than once. "Is there something going on here I should know about? Some reason you work late nights so much?"

"I obtained them with this purpose in mind, a brand free of spermicides. Although, between this pregnancy scare and the nanobugs, I'm beginning to think I should be handing them out to you every week...."

Darien snorted. "Every week. I wish!"

"Quit stalling," she said, pressing the packets and sample cup into Darien's hands and turning him around by the shoulders. She gave him a little push between the shoulder blades for good measure.

"Uh, right...." Darien reluctantly took them and headed for the door. When he opened it, Bobby was still waiting on the other side. He started to follow along, opened his mouth to continue his harangue, but then saw the sample cup in Darien's hand, and the other item he carried, and his mouth closed again and he stepped back almost involuntarily.

Thanking the powers that be for the odd mental blocks of his partner, Darien escaped to the restroom down the hall.

"Come on in, Bobby. I wanted to show you something."

Hobbes had already stalked into the Keep, prowling around the edges, picking things up and turning them over, looking up to the ceiling as if checking for cobwebs in the corners.

"I have had the Maid in here this past week." Claire said, trying to reassure him.

"The Maid works for them, she isn't gonna find their bugs."

"Well, neither are you, at least not this minute. Now come over here and look at this." She had called up a new group of molecules for him to examine. She had noticed that his blocked memories tended to resurface more readily when he was distracted, and she might as well make this conversation serve double-duty. She waited until he's started examining the diagrams, then gently asked, "Bobby, when's the last time you talked to your psychiatrist?"

"Last week, why?" Then the question sank in. "Oh, no, no, not you too. Fawkes is bad enough, I don't need you riding me about being paranoid. It ain't paranoia if it's true, and I figured out a lot of stuff while I was smart that I'm remembering now. I keep seeing things and thinking, 'There, that's familiar,' and sure enough it turns out exactly like I knew it would."

Hobbes had tapped the computer screen while he said this, and Claire made a note of where his finger landed. He might have been touching a spot at random, but the subconscious could do funny things.

He turned back to the computer for a minute, then swore and slammed his fist against the table beside the mouse. "Dammit, I know there's something going on here, there's a big picture I just can't get my brain around yet." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills. He started to twist open the bottle, but Claire snatched it out of his hands to read the label. "Hey! Gimme those, I need those!" He tried to snatch them back, but Claire turned to put her shoulder between them, and Bobby still had some compunction against physically attacking Claire.

"Bobby, how long have you been taking these?" she asked, reading the label.

"Three weeks or so, the new shrink put me on them. That and the hypnosis is what she used to help me get at blocked memories. And I need them, if I'm gonna figure out what's wrong with the stuff you keep showing me."

"And you're still on your regular meds?"

"Yes, I told you, I told Fawkes, I'm taking my pills. I'm not nuts, Claire! Now will you give me my pills?"

She opened the bottle, checking the contents, then double-checked the date on the label and number of pills dispensed. "What happened to the rest of them?"

"Nothing." He snatched at the container again but she held it behind her out of his reach until he stopped.

"There are...four pills missing. This is a twice a day prescription, when did you take your last one?"

"I figured out three a day works better than two. The memories are almost where I can get at them now. C'mon, a lot of my meds have been stuff they have to adjust the dose based on effect."

"You know better than this, Bobby. Especially now. The toxic dose of lithium is very close to the effective dose, that's why you get blood levels checked regularly."

"I knew it was a risk, but this is too important. Fawkes' life is at stake here."

Claire froze. "What makes you say that?"

His pills denied him, Hobbes paced restlessly about the Keep again. "I don't  _know_  what it is exactly, that's why I need the pills, but I know he's in danger, bad danger. He's got dozens of people trying to kill him or catch him or harvest the gland, and the gland itself is just as bad, and there's nobody we can trust, not really."

"You can trust me, Bobby."

"Ha! Then why are you trying to stop me from saving him?" He sank back into his seat, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands, and looked up at her mournfully. "I  _need_  those pills, I've almost got it, I have to figure out what's wrong and save him and you're not letting me, you're in on it, you're all in on it! They're watching, and they're listening, and they're trying to stop me, and you're trying to stop me...."

Hobbes had risen from his seat by the computer and was stalking towards the Keeper, eyes on the pill bottle. She backed away until her hips hit a counter behind her. She didn't want to hurt Bobby, but wasn't sure what sort of condition he was in, whether he was still capable of listening to reason.

"I can't be one of them, Bobby, remember? I helped to cure Darien. I helped with a lot of other things against the Official's wishes."

"You gave him the wrong cure. You gave him Arnaud's cure. How could you trust Arnaud? There's got to be some catch, Arnaud wouldn't help cure the madness. He wouldn't. You didn't think it through, or you did and you didn't care. It's a dead end, I chased it down, it's a flawed cure and I know you're willing to kill him, you would have when he hit stage five, you're killing Fawkes, you've got to let me help him...."

Bobby leapt at her, and Claire got up a block to prevent his blow from landing but his weight pushed her to the side and his feet pulled hers out from under her. He tried to pin her down, to slam her hand against the floor until she had to let go, but she got her foot between them and pushed him away hard. He went, but her wrist went with him, yanking her arm hard in its socket. He twisted and her hand opened and the pills skittered across the floor, and then Darien was behind him, pinning his arms in a hold Bobby had taught him, pulling him back and off until they were both on the floor, Hobbes unable to scramble up because of how Darien held him.

"Hobbes, stop it! Stop it!" He shook Hobbes with each repetition, like a cat shaking a misbehaving kitten, until suddenly Hobbes stopped struggling. Darien waited until he was sure Bobby had come to his senses, for now at least, and Claire scrambled off the floor and retrieved the pill bottle, hiding it in the back of a drawer located behind Bobby where he couldn't see where she put it.

"Bobby, will you listen to me? Will you promise to listen to what I have to say? If you can convince me you're right, I'll help you to get at those memories, but you have to listen to me."

He finally relaxed, and Darien let go of his partner, who stood and shook himself off. He reached down and offered his partner a hand up

from the floor. Darien clasped hands, let the older agent hoist him to his feet, and then, before Hobbes could let go, pulled his other hand out of his jacket pocket and slipped a handcuff onto Bobby's wrist. It would never have worked if Hobbes were at his best, but he was so scattered mentally that he didn't notice and start fighting until the other end of the cuff was safely around a bar on the counteragent chair.

"You son of a bitch!" Hobbes yelled, trying to get his wrist free, but Darien had learned from the best.

"Hobbes, I'll let you go once you've let the Keeper have her say. Now calm down."

Hobbes took a deep breath, let it out, and visibly got ahold of himself. He climbed up onto the chair, a bit awkwardly with one hand cuffed, and tried to look like he was waiting patiently.

Claire moved directly in front of him. "Bobby, listen to me. I know you think you're okay, but you're not. You're not acting like ourself, or rather, you're acting like you when you're off your meds." He started to protest and she held up a hand. "Let me finish. I think that it's because of the change in your medication. You're still taking your other pills, but this new one is interfering with the way the others are supposed to work." She reached out and touched Bobby's shoulder. "You know I'm right, don't you?"

He looked into her eyes and after several long seconds, nodded. "I know I'm not quite right, but you're only part right, too."

"How so?" She wanted to make him feel like she was on his side, listening to what he had to say and really considering it.

"Maybe I'm getting paranoid again, but one thing isn't paranoia. I'm remembering things that I figured out while I was infected with that genius virus, right? I wasn't on the new meds back then. I dealt in truth, I remember saying that. Facts led to inferences, and it all led to certain conclusions. And those conclusions are not my imagination, they're not my paranoia because my pills aren't working as good as usual. They were already there, I'm just uncovering them. If anything's making me paranoid, it's what I'm remembering!"

Darien turned the handcuff key over and over in his hands, sitting just out of Bobby's reach. "Can I ask something?"

"What is it, Darien?"

He turned to his partner. "Hobbes, think back. Try to remember. When the genius virus was affecting you, you weren't acting like yourself. You wanted to be left alone, withdrew into your own little world. You were certain no one here liked you or respected you. You were ready to let the virus take you until I gave you a reason to do otherwise." He turned to Claire. "Do those sound like symptoms of clinical depression to you?"

"Yes, yes they do. Bobby, were you taking your pills while you were...in genius mode?"

Hobbes closed his eyes and they could see his body relaxing. Claire and Darien exchanged a hopeful look. He really was trying. After a moment, his eyes opened again.

"No. No, I wasn't taking my pills. But that explains how I was acting, it doesn't change what I figured out."

"But it does!" Claire's eyes lit up. "Memories aren't formed in a vacuum. And facts aren't interpreted in a vacuum either. If you were clinically depressed, then you would have interpreted them in a negative way. If

there were two possible conclusions, you would have gone with the less hopeful

one, the one with the worst outcome. You would tend to remember the bad ones more than the good ones. It would skew all your mental processes."

"I don't know...." Hobbes was still skeptical. "If my mental processes were so skewed, how'd I come up with such accurate info on those Quicksilver hormone things?"

"Well, the actual science is rather straightforward, once you come up with the idea of this variation. But your interpretation of its effect is still highly subjective. You could take a fragment that could cause a one-in-a-million side effect, and focus in on that tiny chance, and obsess about it until it seems like a greater danger than it is."

"But wouldn't he be smart enough to see around problems like that?" Darien wanted his partner back, but he also wanted to know whether Bobby really did have a way to get the gland out.

"Intelligence isn't a bar against mental illness, Darien. There are Mensa members in mental hospitals. There's a Nobel-winning mathematician who was schizophrenic. You can't think your way out of clinical depression. It's a physical illness, an imbalance of chemicals in the brain. In fact, if anything, geniuses are better at thinking up rationalizations to justify what they already believe is true.

"And now, you're in effect off your medications again, and you're re-interpreting the memories from a further skewed perspective. Memories aren't as solid and inflexible as people think. When you remember an event, you truly remember only a few key points, and reconstruct all the rest. The same it true with scientific facts, you tend to remember the conclusions but not every step of the way to get there. So if you made a few assumptions, you'll tend to forget that, to ignore the fact that it isn't as solid a conclusion as it looks. And if you're paranoid now, you'll do all this reconstructing from a paranoid perspective."

For a moment she thought she had him, that she'd convinced him. But she had forgotten her own argument. You can't think your way out of mental illness, you can't be convinced to stop being crazy. Hobbes turned his back on her to talk only to Darien.

"Fawkes, you're my partner. You know how good I am at what I do. Even when you think I'm acting nuts, I've got some reason behind it, something you didn't see or didn't know about. You said yourself I'm not nearly as nuts as I used to think.

"I knew how to get the gland out, Fawkes. I'm as sure of it as I am that you'd risk your life for me. And I know that it's got to come out, that something bad is gonna happen if you keep going the way you are. It's so clear, and you can't see. You're not gonna see. I can see for you, Fawkes.

"Give me back my pills. You saw where she put them. Let me go, help me find them."

Darien backed away a step, shaking his head. "So I lose the gland and you end up in a looney bin? I'm not going to sacrifice your sanity, Hobbes!"

"I don't want to stay like this forever! I just want to remember what I need to, in order to make you safe again, and then I can go back to the old medications, and get myself sane. I've been nuts, and I've come back, more than once. You can lock me up if you have to, you've got my permission. But please, let me help get that thing out of you first!"

Darien searched his partner's face. He meant it, he was certain about it. If Hobbes was right, here was a chance at freedom, true freedom, with no government agencies or terrorists trying to make him do their bidding. He looked up at Claire, and somehow she knew what his question was. She slowly shook her head.

"I can't do it, partner. I can't let you sacrifice yourself just for me to get free of this gland. You can't handle it, Hobbes, you can't be sure that you'll be able to get back to yourself if you go that far into it. And how long would it take, to figure it all out and then get back to normal? You hear about people who get cured of their craziness, it's never an overnight thing. It's years and years. I'm not gonna give you up for that long.

"Bobby, I still want to get this thing out of my head. But it's not that important any more. Without the madness, without the risk of hurting someone else, I can deal with it until the Keeper figures it out."

Hobbes was quiet. He looked from one face to the other, searching for something. Neither could tell what.

"Unlock me," he said softly.

Darien hesitated, then pulled out the keys and walked over. Hobbes waited calmly while Darien unlocked the cuff attached to the chair, and didn't protest when he locked that end around his own wrist instead of unlocking the other side and setting Hobbes free. He swung his legs around and hopped down from the chair, heading over to the computer, giving Darien plenty of signals where he was going so he could follow without pulling on the cuffs.

He sat in front of the computer and went through his calming routine. Darien and Claire exchanged worried looks while waiting to see what he'd do next.

He opened his eyes and flipped through a series of windows, scrolling and clicking. Only his hand moving the mouse and his eyes flickering from place to place on the screen. And finally, he stopped, and turned to Claire, circling an area with his finger on the screen.

"There. Start looking there, it'll lead you the right way."

He turned towards Darien then. "Guess that's all I have time for. You wanna take me to my shrink now?"

Darien got up and let the way out even as he asked, "Can you just walk in and be seen? Don't you need an appointment?"

"I'll call on my cell on the way in. I'll get them to find a way." He glanced at their wrists, then back over at the computer, his steps slowing slightly. "Better keep the cuffs on, though."

The door to the Keep slid shut, leaving Claire staring at the blank inside of it. She turned back to the computer screen, seeing again his finger moving, tracing the area of the formula there that she needed to examine.

Something had caught the edge of her attention as she looked from the door to the computer. Her eyes backtracked, and she spotted the samples she'd sent Darien for. He'd had them when he came back, and shoved them onto the counter near the door to free his hands to help her.

Deciding the computer could wait while the samples couldn't, not at room temperature, she got up, collected them, and got down to work.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag

 

Claire, Darien and Bobby sat opposite the Official, Eberts in his customary place at his boss's shoulder. He looked at them, one by one, and then asked, through clenched teeth, "Where are they?"

"Where's who?" Bobby asked innocently. "Sorry, I've been out of the loop, you know."

"Mei-Lin Chong and Chen-Po Li have disappeared," Eberts explained. "There have been no reports of them in any plane, train, or bus stations. No cars were rented to anyone matching either description. We even checked the dealerships to make sure they didn't buy a car. And all of your vehicles are accounted for."

"To me, that says that they're still in town," The Official added. "I'm assigning you to find them. We still need that Quicksilver recycler."

"We have the formula," Claire pointed out, a little indignantly.

"A complex formula, written in Chinese. It will take time to translate, and even you will need some time to be able to work out the application. We'll save valuable time by convincing Dr. Chong to help us in creating the device itself."

"Uh, Chief?" Fawkes said, waving his hand in a half-hearted signal for permission to talk. "There's one way out of town you didn't mention."

"And what way is that, Fawkes?" he asked, annoyed at the delay.

"They could ask a friend to help them escape. Someone who could sympathize with the problem of government agencies that aren't real good at taking no for an answer."

"What have you done?" His voice was a cold, dangerous whisper.

"Helped out a friend."

"Hobbes! Find them."

"Sorry, sir, I don't think I can do that. They've obviously been aided in their escape by an expert at making people disappear."

The Official glared from one to the other. He was used to insubordination from Fawkes, but Hobbes had never shown such an inclination to join in. His new-found independence appeared to be going to his head.

"Doctor, I don't suppose you know anything?"

"I know that Mei-Lin asked for a copy of her medical records, and I arranged for acceptable versions, which did not reveal any classified information. But as for where those records were taken, I have no idea."

"Sir, you don't actually have the authority to detain them for anything, do you?" Hobbes asked, in an overly sweet innocent tone.

"You will learn to put a rein on your insubordination. All three of you." He let the threat hang, its effect diminished somewhat by the conviction among all its targets that there was no way he could carry through on it. "Get out of my sight."

Darien and Bobby rose and left as one. They waited until they were almost out of sight to exchange a low five. Claire lingered behind.

"Sir, while I was working on Mei-Lin's medical records, I made an interesting discovery."

"Oh, really? And what, pray tell, is that?"

"Some of the test results had already been altered. In fact, every one of the tests with abnormal results showed evidence of tampering."

The Official nodded. "Have you shared this information with anyone else?"

"Not so far. I suppose whether I do will depend in part on whether the subject ever comes up." The Official wasn't the only one who could leave a threat hanging. She turned and left out the same door her coworkers had gone through.

"Eberts! Find out what mistakes were made, and make sure we locate someone who will do a more undetectable job next time."

"Yes, sir."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Outside in the hall, Hobbes quirked an eyebrow at Darien. When that didn't work, he nudged him.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did you want something?" Darien teased.

"Just wondered where the happy couple went to."

"Actually, I don't know. I just know how they got there."

"How? Canoe? Bicycle?"

"No, but those are both pretty good ideas. I'll have to keep that in mind."

Hobbes waited another thirty seconds, then thwapped Darien on the upper arm with the back of his hand. "So?"

He couldn't wait to explain any longer. "I talked to Brookes at the FBI. Got him to find a way to get Mei-Lin and Chen-Po into the federal Witness Relocation Program."

Bobby whistled low. "That's not cheap, especially a couple. How'd you get them to agree to it?"

"Promised him a favor sometime in the future. It's a favor from me, not from the Agency, so the Fish has nothing to say about it, and they don't have to worry about the fat man trying to cheat them on it."

"You promised an unknown favor, they can call in any time?"

"Yeah, well, assuming I can work it around my schedule here. But I promised to take vacation time if I had to, they just can't call me off in the middle of a case."

Hobbes thought about it for a moment. "Sounds good to me."

"What, you're not worried he'll screw me over?"

"Nah, Brookes struck me as an okay guy. I'm kinda surprised he trusted you, after the way your last deal turned out, but I think he'll play fair with you."

Darien smiled. Hobbes trusting anyone was a very good sign. After getting Eberts to expedite Dr. Martin's clearance, Darien and Hobbes had gone ahead and gotten her up to speed on the genius virus without waiting for the paperwork to actually go through. Once she understood the sort of mental land mines she had to deal with, she'd spent several intensive sessions getting Hobbes back under control. She'd mentioned to Darien a few days ago, when he came to pick up his partner, that if they have waited any longer, he probably would have needed years of therapy to recover.

Claire caught up with them then, neither one having fully registered that she hadn't been with them all along. "Darien, could you swing by the Keep with me? I have some test results to go over with you."

"Test results? What -- oh, yeah, those tests." He flushed slightly. "Sure, no problem." He turned to his partner. "I'll catch up with you later."

Hobbes watched them walk away, a troubled look on his face. Somehow, he knew what she'd have found. It was a logical result of the situation so far. He could almost say what it would be, but couldn't quite reach it. The information was back on the tip of his tongue. This time, he promised himself, he would follow his partner's advice and let it stay there.

At least until his nagging fears turned into something more concrete. He still had half a bottle of the new pills, if it ever turned out they really did need to know how to get the gland out in a hurry...

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Claire pulled out one of the ubiquitous manila folders medical charts and files were kept in, glancing over the reports inside to refresh her memory. It was rather a delicate matter, and she wanted to deliver the information as smoothly and completely as possible.

"So, Keep, what's up? Everything working okay?" Claire gestured him towards a chair, and Darien had a bad feeling when she didn't begin to answer until he was safely seated. He slid down until he was practically lying in the desk chair, his feet on the counter, defiantly casual. Claire gave him a trademark serious look, then sighed and answered his last question.

"I'm afraid not, although the abnormalities are a very odd assortment."

"Ab...abnormalities?" Darien gave up on the casual attitude instantly, swinging his feet down and leaning forward. His feet planted, he swung nervously side-to-side a few inches each direction.

"First off, your sperm count is low, your motility even lower."

"Motility?"

"How well they swim."

"Ah."

"Your hormones are off-balance as well, again only in a few odd places. It appears that one of the hormones secreted by the Quicksilver gland is suppressing your own natural hormone production, in some very selective ways."

"Suppressing my...my hormones? Like, what, like testosterone?"

"As I said, in some ways, yes, in other ways not. There appears to be a strong effect on the testes themselves, on certain areas of the brain, and on the releasing hormones that trigger testosterone production. But there's no detectable effect on the peripheral tissues; in fact, in many of them this hormone serves the same purpose as your own testosterone would." She arched an eyebrow at him. "So no feminization, no high-pitched voice or development of the mammary tissue."

"No? Well, that's a relief." His sarcasm lacked enthusiasm. "But what do you mean, a direct effect on... you know."

Unable to hide behind medical jargon, Claire searched for the right words. "Well, as I said, it seems to be impairing sperm production. And then there's, well, your, uh, low sex drive."

"My what?" Darien felt the subject spinning out of his control. He bounced up out of the chair and began pacing the room.

"I really should have suspected something sooner," Claire continued, trying to turn to keep facing him. "You didn't need an extra shot of counteragent nearly as often as I had originally budgeted for."

"An extra shot of counteragent? When did you.... aw, crap." He stopped and looked at the Keeper in disbelief. "You had a budget for how often you expected me to...to...."

"Considering the time and money involved, I certainly had to budget any and all expenditures of Quicksilver. I may not have been able to recover very many of Kevin's notes on your training, but it was quite clear which direction the, ah, stimulation...of the gland...took when you started becoming habituated to the spiders."

"Damn." He thought fleetingly that if Kevin weren't dead, he'd be ready to kill him right now. "Mira Sorvino...."

Claire flushed and stammered a bit herself. "As a physician, I knew to expect that a, uh, healthy young male would have certain, ah, unplanned uses of Quicksilver, even if we did prevent you from breeching security with, um, a partner." That was as delicate a way to phrase it as she could think of just now.

"And you kept track of....if I was behind your expectations, you could have let me know, y'know, so I could catch up." Darien's voice lacked conviction. He wondered whether the effect was showing up here, since even now he was aware of a certain lack of enthusiasm on the subject.

"Don't worry, I put the unspent money to good use, on things like anti-peptide solutions and mRNA injections."

"Ha, ha. One more reason for me to be grateful that you finally cured the madness. Freedom to enjoy the magazine of my choice without having to come up with an excuse which, apparently, you wouldn't have bought anyway."

She shook her head, avoiding a smirk only by the slightest twist of the lip. "'Fraid not."

His face clouded. "Somehow this makes it more real. That I'm not the father. I couldn't have been."

"Not without some serious medical intervention." Claire's tone implied that even then, the outcome would be doubtful.

He ran a hand through his hair and across the back of his neck. "Damn." He strode a few paces and then stopped abruptly. "This is just so typical of my life," he yelled, slamming his hand against the lab bench. Claire winced, glad he'd at least spared her computer keyboard this time. "The  _minute_  I decide I really do want to have kids, have a real family of my own....the minute I realize I'm ready for it....you tell me I can't?!?"

The anger was directed at the world, not at Claire, but she still took a step back. Without the madness, she so rarely saw Darien looking dangerously angry, but every now and then she caught a glimpse of the ex-convict that was still a part of her friend's personality.

It burned off on its own, and he leaned back against the counter, scrubbing his face with his hands. "I'm sorry, Claire, it's not your fault. It's not anyone's fault, except maybe Kevin's, or Arnaud's, and they're not here to yell at, are they?"

For a moment, the smart-mouthed slacker was completely gone, a very serious, adult patient in his place. "Is it something you're gonna be able to fix?" There was a naked longing ache in his eyes.

"I won't know that until I --"

"-- run some more tests," Darien finished for her, the serious face buried again but the humor only half-hearted. "Right, I got it."

"Can we start tonight? I've got a couple hours free."

"Actually, I'm gonna have to take a rain check. Hobbes and I had plans. I can be here bright and early tomorrow, though."

Claire frowned. "I notice you don't say bright and early tomorrow morning...."

"Early morning isn't bright. You gotta wait till noon for that, ten at the earliest."

"Remind me to check whether the Quicksilver effects your circadian rhythms while I'm at it."

"Yup. Tomorrow." Darien left the Keep with a jolly wave, but once he'd gotten on the elevator, his face fell. He got out on the floor his office was on, and from there called Hobbes to beg off for the night. Then he went home. He needed to think.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Claire rounded the corner and discovered the door to lab four was standing open. Cautiously, she crouched low and peered around the doorframe to see who might be inside.

Alex Monroe stood in the middle of the now-empty room, her back to the door. She seemed oblivious when Claire straightened and took a few steps inside.

"Alex?"

"Sorry, Claire," Alex replied, her voice under such tight control it lacked even a whisper of emotion. "I'll be out of your way in a minute."

"It's okay, you know. You're allowed to mourn."

"Mourn?" A touch of puzzlement crept into her voice, just enough to identify the word as a question.

"You've given away James' baby things. It's admitting to yourself that the past two years are lost to you. You can never reclaim that part of his life, can never get back the baby they stole. Even if you do get James back...when you get him back...he'll be a different child."

"It's not that....not just that...." She trailed off, not moving a muscle, her back still turned to Claire and the rest of the world.

Claire waited quietly, and after several long minutes, Alex spoke again, her voice shaky.

"I imagine him sometimes, what he must be like now. Is he talking, or walking? Has he learned to say Mama? And I picture it, in my mind. I picture him taking those first wobbly steps towards me, hear him calling me Mama. Sometimes I even have little conversations." She imitated the classic Mother's Voice, higher pitched and wildly varied in tone. "Can you show Mama the ball? Where's the ball? That's right! Do you want the ball?"

Claire smiled, almost laughed, at the sound of cool, calm Monroe using baby talk. It reminded her of nothing so much as of herself, talking to her little Pavlov. But when Alex spoke again, her voice was back to its former desolation.

"Lately....lately I've been picturing myself asking him...would he like a baby brother, or a baby sister."

Claire wished she could see Alex's face. She didn't dare ruin the moment by forcing any further intimacy, by coming closer or even offering words of comfort. Not yet.

"I guess it's that motherhood amnesia they talk about, huh? I mean, after everything I went through for James, to even think about trying again...."

"I can only imagine what it was like to wake up and find him gone."

Alex shook her head. That somehow wasn't what she meant.

"Do you feel like it would be giving up on James? That you'd be trying to replace him?"

"Oh, no, I could never do that. Give up on him or replace him. Plenty of people have a second child, it's not a betrayal of the first one."

Another long silence. Claire began wondering if she'd broken Alex's talkative mood for good. Which would be a pity, since she knew her friend needed this release, had kept things locked up for far too long. She started to move forward, to offer a touch or a shoulder to cry on, but at her first footfall Alex stiffened, as if braced for a blow, or perhaps as if preparing to flee for her life. Forcing herself to keep still and just be there for her, she waited until Alex relaxed enough to speak again.

"I'd been trying for four years before I wound up that fertility clinic, the one that was really a front for Chrysalis. At first I just thought it would happen, you know? People spend so much time trying to  _avoid_  getting pregnant and failing, how hard could it be? But it didn't happen, and it didn't happen. I saw a doctor, then another. There were tests. There were charts. Injections, creams, pills. And hormones brought everything from mood swings to nausea. And then finally, it happened...and then it unhappened. I went through the whole thing again, and was pregnant for about a month, and then I wasn't any more."

"Oh, Alex...." Claire squeezed as much sympathy as humanly possible into those two syllables.

"Finally, I got pregnant again, and I did everything right, and it went from a little black dot on the ultrasound, to a moving blob, until I could see arms and legs, and fingers and toes....And at sixteen weeks, my water broke, and I delivered a little girl."

Claire knew that sixteen weeks was well below the threshold of viability. There would have been no way to save so tiny a baby.

"She was so tiny, so perfect." Alex's voice broke, and she swallowed several times before continuing. "They laid her on my stomach, and she was small enough she could have fit in my hand. She took about a dozen breaths. And then she stopped, and they took her away again."

She hugged herself, shivering a little, but still made no move to turn around, to look anywhere but into herself, at her own pain.

"A few months later, a friend told me about this new fertility clinic, about all the successes they'd had with cases like mine, and I almost didn't even go. I couldn't face that kind of hope and loss again. But in the end, the hope was stronger, and I went.....and James' pregnancy was about as normal as they get. And I thought, this was it, I'd finally done it, I could finally relax and know my baby was safely in the world, and then they took him from me."

Claire felt a tear trickle down her cheek. She let it go.

"For a while now, I've actually been considering it. I don't think I even realized at first. It was just a sort of a wistful longing. Mei-Lin, her baby, her fears for the baby's health, about possibly having to bring it up on her own...all that brought my feelings out where I can't hide from them.

"What Chrysalis gave me, what they did to make it happen...I've searched the clinics we've been able to identify as theirs. There's nothing left but the usual crap. Whatever their secrets, they took them with them."

She was so tense she practically vibrated. She gave one long, deep sigh, the air catching in her throat, and seemed to collapse inward a little. But she was more relaxed now, as if she'd breathed out the tension, whatever it was that pinned her in place.

"I can't do it, Claire. I can't go through all that again. It would tear me apart if I lost another child, if I let myself hope again and saw that hope die. Tear me into a million little pieces I could never, ever put back together again."

Alex turned around, then, and Claire could see that her face was dry. There were no tears. But her eyes were haunted.

"Don't wait too long, Claire. If you're planning on having children yourself, don't put it off until it's too late." Her voice caught, then, for the first and last time. "And too late may be a lot sooner than you think."

Alex pushed past her, every fiber stiff as she retreated to the elevator and, presumably, the sanctuary of her private office. Claire wondered whether her friend would allow herself to cry there; somehow she doubted it.

It took a little longer for Monroe's words to sink in. When they did, she was the one left standing alone in the room, contemplating children that might never be. Alex's -- her son she still searched for, her premature daughter who never had a chance to live, a baby brother or sister she couldn't bear to dream of. Darien's -- how hard he must have searched his soul, trying to decide how he felt about being a father, finally embracing it only to have it suddenly snatched away, not only for this child but for any others he might have someday chosen to have. Her own, perhaps?

Too late may be sooner than you think. Had Darien ever thought it might be too late? She tried to imagine it, learning that there was something dead inside you, something that was supposed to create life but couldn't. How would  _she_  feel, if she learned that she no longer had that chance?

Suddenly she was glad that Darien had decided to postpone the testing until tomorrow, that Alex had retreated to her office, that Bobby's mental health was in someone else's hands for now. She wanted to be alone with her own thoughts tonight. Home, in her own personal space, with Pavlov curled up beside her.

Claire left the lab, locking the door behind her, and went to the Keep to collect her jacket. The gland and all its problems could wait until tomorrow.

 

 

End


End file.
